We Keep Falling
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: After three years spent with dismantling Moriarty's web, Sherlock finally returns to London - and to John. John, however, after three years of thinking his best friend dead, does not react as expected and is not ready to forgive him, but sends Sherlock, alone and in need of his friend, away. When John finally comes to his senses, it might be too late./Prompt fill. Angsty.
1. Prelude

_My first attempt at a reunion-story, mere days away (let's think positive!) from the real reunion._

_This story was written due to a prompt by Anagogia, who wanted... a reunion where, to keep it short, Sherlock is in need of a friend, but John is not ready to forgive him so easily. (I would elaborate, but then, I'd spoiler quite much of the plot, so... no.)_

_Be prepared for angst to come._

_I don't own anything, not even the idea and quite many of the details - credits for that go to Anagogia!_

_Dear Anagogia, I hope you enjoy what I did with your idea!_

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

* * *

Prelude

* * *

Cold. Cold everywhere. Cold and damp.

Sherlock Holmes wrapped his arms around his body and pressed his eyes shut.

Cold. Cold.

He did not want to fall asleep.

It was illogical, of course it was, highly so, because dreams were only a product of his own imagination, of his mind turning against him, dreams were not real, nightmares weren't, because they could not do anything, because they were not true and every single reaction of his body was simply an automatic response to the perception of threat and dread he experienced in the dream, so…

He shuddered, involuntarily, and forced his eyes open again.

He wasn't even tired, he didn't need sleep, he had napped about an hour yesterday, he was fine without sleep.

Cold, so cold.

Shivering, clenching his teeth, Sherlock attempted to curl up, to draw his legs closer to his chest.

And hissed, once more involuntarily, as a stabbing pain shot through his right knee.

Stupid, so stupid, he had been stupid. Had allowed himself to get inconvenienced, to be incapacitated by a forceful kick against his knee. Had had something torn in his knee, probably.

Stupid, foolish, so foolish, distracted by the searing pain in his head and the frantic thumping of his heart against his ribs, distracted by the blood dripping into his eyes and running over his face.

Sherlock narrowed his eye, the one not almost swollen shut, and attempted to blink away the bleariness as he squinted at the screen of his old mobile.

Distracted.

He could just call, one call, could just…

"No!" he growled, trying to take a deep breath and closing his eyes once more.

He couldn't do that. Wasn't allowed to. Wasn't.

Cold, why was it so cold? Cold, or was it… was it the fever? Did he even have a fever?

Swallowing dryly, he tried rubbing his back, tried moving his fingers and arms to produce a tiny bit of warmth.

It shouldn't be so cold, it wasn't even winter any more, and he… he wasn't outside, was he? No, he had managed to break into some hut somewhere, so…

In the nights, he missed his coat the most. The hoodie he was wearing didn't feel half as safe as…

No, stupid. Sentiment. Distracting him.

Sentiment. Sentiment was to blame for his latest mishap, when he very nearly had let the men escape that he had been after. He had had them, almost, had been prepared to shoot them… when one of them had shouted a question at him, had made Sherlock stop dead, cause his entire arm to shiver and his bullet to miss.

"Miss your dear doctor? Not sure if you'd want him back after what we've done to him…"

A lie, it had been a lie.

It had to be.

Because… No.

Abruptly, Sherlock entangled his arms from his battered body, ignoring the pressure of his badly bruised ribs against his lungs, and shoved himself into a sitting position.

He wasn't tired.

_After what we've done to him…_

They hadn't laid a finger on John, he knew that, they couldn't have because they hadn't known, initially, hadn't assumed that Sherlock was the one who was after them, Sherlock who was supposed to be dead and rotting in moist soil. Nobody knew he was alive, nobody, nobody could know, at least not until he was finished.

Finished.

Finished once he had got to Moran, to Moriarty's second-in-command, the one who still kept Moriarty's web together. Without him, it would all fall apart. Fall apart…

They had been thoughtless, these two, assuming that he was beaten after they had been done with him, enjoying their triumph for a moment to long before finishing him off, hadn't even thought about that he might still fight back, cringing on the concrete like worm, bleeding and throwing up blood mixed with bile and gasping for breath. He had got them, in the end, but it had been… close.

Distantly, he realised that he was slumping to one side, but he couldn't care. Didn't have enough energy left to care.

Two… no, three… four… four days ago.

Four days ago, probably, he had confronted them - he didn't even know their names, just their aliases -, had made his mistake, had killed them, escaped by foot because it had been too risky to steal a car, with him spilling and dripping his blood everywhere, the images of John, dead, of John, tortured, of John staring at him accusingly, shouting at him: "You didn't keep me safe, you didn't, it's all your fault…"… the images, having been born in the darkness of more than two years of hiding, of hunting men down, of being… alone, still haunting him.

No. No…

Sherlock's eyes closed.

Nightmares, he had had nightmares, leaving him even weaker, leaving him screaming and trembling and…

No. John was fine. John was safe.

Nobody knew what he was doing, where he was, that he was alive, nobody knew, Mycroft would watch over John, nobody would try to threaten John, nobody…

Dreams weren't real, weren't a physical experience, could not harm him.

He had been through worse, through far worse, nightmares didn't have any power over him.

John was fine, he was…

Sherlock exhaled slowly as his head hit the dirty floor.

Sleep, his transport demanded sleep, needed sleep, but he…

Nightmares could not harm him.

No.

He shuddered again, losing the battle with his own body. Once more. Again.

Transport.

Tired, he was so tired, so… He couldn't think, couldn't think straight, couldn't concentrate on the few people who were left, on the few people he still needed to eliminate, couldn't focus when he needed to funtion properly for once.

Just an hour. Or two. A bit of rest for his battered transport.

Nightmares were just dreams, the pictures he saw just being imaginations his mind conjured, not real, not real, not real…

He did not want to fall asleep, was his last thought before he inevitably slipped into oblivion.

* * *

John Watson woke up screaming.

Again.

One. Two. Three. Four.

He counted, slowly, very slowly, taking deep breaths, just as his therapist had told him to, many months ago. It helped.

Occasionally.

If it didn't… well, going back to sleep wasn't an option, anyway.

He didn't close his eyes again, kept them wide open instead, staring at the ceiling of his tiny apartment. And simply breathed and counted his breaths.

Relax. Calm down.

It did work, this time.

Eventually.

Rubbing a hand over his burning eyes, he sat up and risked a glance on his mobile, lying on the bedside table.

3:21 am.

Definitely too early to get up. Unfortunately.

Suddenly becoming aware of how damp his shirt was, he got rid of his covers and slid to the edge of his bed.

Shower. He needed a shower now. The warm water, running down his face, would calm him.

And new clothes. Needed new clothes. And something to drink.

Sighing, John got to his feet.

It took a while until he felt better.

4:12 am. Still too early to get up. And too early to give Rose a call.

Pulling his dressing gown closer around his body, he sank down on his mattress again.

This had been the worst nightmare for a long time, definitely. He couldn't even name what he had dreamt of, only that it had been… terrifying, and scaring, and painful, and that it had involved Sh-

Two years ago. More than two years, in fact, and sometimes John still felt as if he was caught in an eternal nightmare. As if he just had to wake up and everything would be fine, everything would be just as it had always been.

"Could as well make myself a cup of tea," he muttered to himself, getting up again.

He didn't want to try to go back to sleep. One nightmare had been enough, and if he was tired, really tired, tomorrow evening, maybe he'd then sleep soundly and dreamlessly.

"Bloody nightmares," he mumbled as he switched the kettle on.

They still occurred, occasionally. Much less frequently than at the beginning, thank God.

He was over it, really. Endless hours with Ella had to have been of any use, after all. He had a life now, a regular job, a regular girlfriend, a little flat of his own, a perfectly well-organised and ordinary life.

Ordinary.

John sighed and run his hand through his still wet hair. His grey hair.

He wasn't even that old. Maybe he should dye it, colour it, brown, maybe, or black. Rose might like it.

Chuckling bitterly for a moment, he rubbed his tired eyes and waited for the kettle to boil.

He could as well try to update his blog, the blog he still hadn't deleted.

He had a life now, a proper life, he had come to terms with Sherlock's - John practically forced himself to think the name of his dead best friend - suicide, had accepted that his former flatmate was dead. Wouldn't come back, in fact.

He was fine, really.

Most of the time.

He was fine.

But that didn't mean he felt like going back to bed and experiencing another nightmare.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Please let me know what you thought._


	2. One

_Thank you very much for your appreciation and your following and even favouriting! It's amazing, really._

_I am doing my best to be quick before the beginning of the new year will make this entirely AU._

_So, here's the second part._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

One

* * *

_Seven months, seventeen days later_

* * *

Two years, ten months and four days.

Two years, ten months and four days.

Too long. Too much time.

Three days since his return to London, for three days he had been back here, in this city, his city, the city he knew so well.

One week since he had accomplished his mission, since he had uncovered the last member of Moriarty's vast network. Not really the last one, of course, but the last one with the potential to be a threat to John. One week since he had lured Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second-in-command, into a trap, according to Mycroft's and his plans, lured him into a trap, presented himself as a bait and had waited, for Mycroft's men to take care of Moran. They had come. Eventually. Despite himself, Sherlock shuddered.

John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

It was absurd, Sherlock knew that, but those three names, those names, had become like a mantra, the reason he had done what he had done, the reason to keep going.

Too long. It had been too long.

John.

John.

Sherlock coughed, raspily, and attempted to hold his breath, determined to swallow the sputum he had brought up.

Back to John. Back to his life, his normal life, back to how it had been, back to a home, to a life worth living, away from streets and hunger and hunting and being hunted…

No. Over. It was over.

He was back, back home, in London. In front of John's new flat.

New flat. John had a new flat. It had taken him three days to find out, without Mycroft's help. Without Mycroft, because this was something he had to do on his own, to come back to John.

Sherlock's heart gave a painful leap as he tried to remember John's face, every detail of his face.

Two years, ten months and four days.

His knees started buckling beneath him as he realised what this meant. So close, so close…

He _did _manage to steady himself before he could crumble to the floor, grabbing the side mirror of the car parked next to him.

So close.

After all this time.

It was stupid, he tried to convince himself, stupid to let sentiment rule his logical mind, but…

But in this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be back at 221B, with John, John keeping him safe and being kind and steady and solid, being his _friend_, and forget about everything. Just forget.

Brutally stifling another cough, Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the house, waiting for John.

* * *

"I had been looking forward to this weekend, John," Rose told him for the third time since they had met at the surgery he was working at.

Suppressing a sigh, he nodded, staring out of the window. "I know," he muttered. "I'm sorry, it's just… there's wave of flu going around, and they need me, and…"

In contrast to him, Rose did sigh. "I know, I know. Always working. Sometimes I wonder if you're actually in a relationship with your work and not with me. And then there's this DI you're helping with his cases…"

"Oh no, not that again," John interrupted. "It was just once, okay, and by the way, he's an old friend."

Rose only huffed.

John rested his forehead against the window of the cab. Great start of the evening. Rose and he had been a couple for a few months now, after they had met in a restaurant John used to spend his lunch breaks in. A few months.

He should propose to her, he assumed. Propose to her and marry her and lead a happy life with her. An ordinary life.

"So… what are we going to do, then?" she wanted to know, resting her hand on his thigh.

John still didn't look at her. "Watch a DVD?" he suggested.

Rose withdrew her hand. "Again? We did that last week…"

It was late already, and it was raining, and John really did not have the energy to entertain his girlfriend now. "Listen, Rose, I know you…"

"John," she protested. "I was hoping we could go out, have dinner, maybe, and…"

The lights were passing by outside, lights of street lamps and other cars driving into the opposite direction. The blur of life, the sound of life.

John sighed and finally turned his head. "Not today, Rose," he muttered and pressed a hasty kiss to her cheek.

She only sighed.

* * *

It was dark already, dark.

The dark always made him feel vulnerable, stupidly enough, vulnerable because he could never see who was sneaking up on him, or who was coming from behind.

On more than one occasion he had only barely escaped a knife directed at his heart, or a gun shot aimed at him because of a sheer sensation, because of the pure feeling of danger.

Sherlock had withdrawn, to the very edge of the house John was now living in, the hood of his jumper pulled over his head, arms crossed in front of his chest.

No, he reminded himself and barely resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder for the third time in one minute. No, he didn't need to, he was safe now, safe, not being followed anymore, not…

Relax, he told himself. Appear normal.

And failed.

It was dark already, and it was raining, drizzling, ever so softly.

Sherlock didn't mind. Didn't care, rather. He had spent many hours in the rain during these almost three years - a few minutes or even hours more didn't matter to him.

John.

He was going to see John again.

John. His friend.

Friend.

Sherlock still remembered that one night when he had given in, when he had dialled John's number, alone, feverish, shivering, only scarcely succeeding in not throwing up everything he had ingested in the past two days. Had given in, for once, in his weakest moment, and had called John.

His voicemail, rather, because it had been in the middle of the night for John, too, and he had probably been asleep, hadn't heard his mobile, hadn't answered.

Sherlock had never attempted it again afterwards, cursing himself for his stupidity, for his weakness, and vomiting in fact, only seconds later.

He would get back to John, see him again, that was what he had been holding on to, what had kept him from calling his friend - friend - again and possibly endangering John. Or from giving in, simply stopping, ceasing.

Would get back. He was back, now, finally, after all those months.

Finally.

A cab appeared in the street, the first cab in hours.

John.

John.

Sherlock's heart sped up as the light of the cab blinded him, making a step away from the solid wall behind him, from the wall having kept him upright.

His legs were trembling and buckling once more, but he didn't care. Not long, he didn't have to hold on much longer, only a few minutes…

And then John would be back.

* * *

They had spent the rest of the journey in the cab in such uncomfortable silence that John was actually happy when they finally reached his flat.

Rose left it to him to pay the driver, as she always did, and already got out, standing in the rain like a soaked puppy.

"Hurry up, John!" she demanded. "It's freezing out here."

John waited patiently until the cabbie had passed him the change and then climbed out of the car, too, much more slowly than Rose, not exactly eager to spend the evening in front of the telly, together with her chattering, instead of in his warm and cosy bed, sleeping.

He shouldn't work that much, probably. But then, what use was there in sitting around at home, on his own?

"John!" she demanded, waiting next to the front door.

"Coming," he muttered, pulling his coat collar up against the wind and the rain.

That was when too many things happened at once.

Rose shrieked, a hooded figure suddenly dissolved from the wall of the house while the cab drove away, and another voice said his name.

Another voice.

John froze on the spot.

"John!" Rose squealed again. "Who is that? Do you know him?"

Know him.

John still couldn't move.

"John…," the hooded figure repeated.

That voice.

No. That was not possible.

No.

The hood disappeared and revealed short hair, short, dark hair, a pale face with bright eyes, a straight nose, and cheekbones… cheekbones…

"No," John breathed and stumbled backwards. "That's not possible, that's… you're dead!"

"John!" Rose squeaked again.

John didn't pay attention to her.

"John…," the hallucination in front of him whispered, its voice trembling. "John, I'm… I'm sorry."

Sorry.

No. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Impossible.

"It's…," he croaked, still absolutely shocked.

"John!" Rose protested.

"Shut up!" he shouted at her, entirely fixed on the dead man approaching him.

"You're… you're dead," he repeated, slowly extending a hand towards the face he had never expected to see again.

"I'm not," the figure replied, hoarsely, staring at John.

John's knees started to give way beneath him and he would have, he assumed, collapsed to the concrete and fainted if it hadn't been for the street lamp conveniently next to him.

He blinked, once, twice, three times. The figure was still there. "You see him, too?" he addressed Rose, without even looking at her.

"What? Yes, yes, of course! Who is that, John?" she whined. "John, I want to go inside…"

John's breath hitched in his throat.

No. That wasn't possible.

And yet, it seemed so.

"Sherlock," he whispered before his legs gave in.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Here we are, then, getting closer to the actual reunion. Curious about reactions? ;)  
_

___Please let me know what you think._


	3. Two

_Thank you - once more!_

_Initially, I hadn't even intended to upload this so quickly after the first part, but, well... Plans change - here you are._

_Angst to come, just as a fair warning._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Two

* * *

He didn't know how, but someway, miraculously, John managed not to collapse, but to remain on his feet, far from steady, but at least upright.

The figure - Sherlock. Sherlock! - was approaching him, slowly, reaching for him.

John's brain tried to catch up with what was happening.

Sherlock, his best friend, his dead best friend, was here, after almost three years, in front of his new flat, not dead, apparently. Not dead.

Not dead.

How could he…

"You were dead," John breathed, stumbling backwards.

Dead, dead on the pavement, on the concrete in front of Bart's, buried, lying in a grave with many flowers, a grave John still went to visit at least once per month. At least once. Dead. Or rather, supposed to be.

"How… how can you…," he muttered, not expecting an answer.

"John…," Sherlock simply repeated, still staring at him like that. Like a lost puppy, the thought occurred to John's brain, like someone seeking forgiveness.

Forgiveness.

And now, all the pieces fell into place.

"No!" John growled. "No! Tell me you didn't do that! Tell me…" His voice broke.

Sherlock stopped, staring at John's raised hand, at John's hand trying to keep him away, to block him from coming closer.

"You staged it." John started laughing. Madly, like a maniac, but he didn't care. Sherlock's gaze wavered, and that was all of a confirmation John had needed. "You staged that entire thing, and I was stupid enough to fall for it. Oh God." Rose was probably frightened to death by his outburst, but he couldn't stop. Of course. He should have known, of course. "You staged it…"

"I… I had to," Sherlock began slowly, still staring at John with this unnerving look in his eyes. Fear, John would have said if he had been talking about someone else, not Sherlock Holmes, who was supposed to be dead.

He kept laughing, his heart and his lungs aching. "Of course…," he growled. "Of course. I should have realised it, eh? The suicide. You would never commit suicide, not you, being all brilliant and genius and…" Gasping for breath, he shook his head, his hands clenched into fists, his left leg trembling even worse than the right one. "Of course… How could I actually believe you…" For the second time this evening, his voice failed him.

And then even more pieces fell into place.

The roof top. The phone call. The lie. The game. Moriarty. The game.

Sherlock made a step towards John.

John recoiled, automatically. "No, stay away from me! Stay away… You staged it," he repeated, pressing his eyes shut for a moment. "Oh God. You faked your own suicide and… Oh God." He grinned bitterly. "You knew I'd fall for it, didn't you? Stupid, ordinary John who never understands anything… Just the sidekick. The PA. Of course I wouldn't see through your little… trick."

A trick, just a magic trick.

Nausea hit John like a physical blow. "You even told me!" he shouted, not caring if the neighbours heard him or if Rose decided to break up with him afterwards. "You told me, and I…"

He had been stupid enough, to let himself be deceived, be tricked, be used. No.

"John…," Sherlock began again, taking another step forwards.

John stumbled back even more, standing in the middle of the street, panting hard, his vision swimming.

"Three years!" he yelled, his heart thumping in his chest. "Three bloody years I believed you were dead! I mourned you, Sherlock! I went back to my therapist! I… God, why am I even telling you this? Because you don't even care, do you?" He certainly appeared like a maniac, he assumed, with all his shouting and chuckling and giggling. "No, of course you don't care. You don't have a heart, right? Was it funny, to watch me try to take yout pulse after you had jumped down there? Was it, tell me!"

If he hadn't known better, John would have said Sherlock looked as if he was about to collapse.

"John…," he whispered again.

John bit his lips and continued shaking his head. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Don't tell me anything. Just… just piss off and leave me in peace, will you? I've… God… Three bloody years…"

He was hyperventilating, maybe, his heart beating out of control, his entire world spinning and turning upside down, but right now, John could see nothing else but rage, rage and fury and, somewhere in the last corner of his heart, covered by his utter madness, a bit of joy, plastered by hurt, and betrayal.

Alive. His best friend was alive. Had faked his death. Had put him, John, through three years of suffering, of therapy, of grief, of guilt.

No. No.

Just no.

"And you think you can come back here, just like that, and everything is back to how it's always been, don't you?" he shouted, circling Sherlock who stood perfectly still in the rain.

John's jacket was soaked, too, but he didn't care. "Why did you even… Oh God. Moriarty. Of course."

It did make sense now, all of it. All of it. Faked his own death, disappeared, just to be able to… play, with his nemesis, play another game, another great game. Not paying attention to other's needs, to other's feelings.

"I thought better of you," John muttered, breathless all of a sudden. "Tell me, was it worth it? Did you enjoy the game? Playing with Moriarty? Did you enjoy it?"

"John…," Sherlock repeated, mindlessly.

John smashed his hand against the door of the car parked next to him. "Don't say my name," he hissed. "Don't. And don't come any closer. Just…"

"John," Sherlock croaked again, not listening to John's warning. "I didn't want to… I had to… I…"

John's body took control.

As soon as he could see clear again, Sherlock was on the concrete, curled up, trying to protect his abdomen John had directed at least one kick at, his nose bleeding from John's punch, the blood mixing with the rain. Blood in dark hair, on the concrete…

No. No. No. No. NO!

John could no longer stand the look in Sherlock's eyes. As if John's reaction was completey unexpected, as if he was to blame, as if Sherlock had done nothing wrong, as if…

"It doesn't work like that!" he forced himself to say, calmly, now. "You can't just come back after you've enjoyed yourself for three years and play with me again because you've grown tired of Moriarty. It doesn't work like that."

Slowly, almost sluggishly, Sherlock raised a hand towards his bleeding nose.

Shocked, he appeared absolutely shocked, John would have assumed if it hadn't been Sherlock who had staged his own suicide only to be able to… play games with a psychopath.

"It doesn't work like that," he whispered, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. Three years. Three years he had spent with thinking that his best friend was dead - three years his supposedly best friend had spent elsewhere, doing what he liked best.

"Just… just go back to Moriarty," he murmured, retreating to the door, not coming too close to Sherlock. "Just… leave me alone. Leave…" For the third time, his voice broke. "Don't come back here," he whispered before hastily turning around, unlocking the door, pushing Rose inside and letting it fall shut again.

No.

* * *

They didn't watch a DVD this night.

John ushered Rose upstairs, to his flat, locked the door as soon as they were inside and drew all curtains shut, only to peek outside every few minutes, to make sure that Sherlock did in fact disappear.

Whenever John stared down and saw the figure of his former flatmate still cower on the concrete, almost like a statue, he felt a familiar pang in his heart, quickly replaced by his rage, his fury.

When he looked for the sixth time, Sherlock was gone.

He sent Rose away only a few minutes later, not answering any of her questions.

"Who was that?"

"What did he want?"

"Didn't you say he was dead?"

By the time he closed the door behind her and locked it again, John was relieved. Relieved and shaky enough for his legs to finally give way beneath him.

He kept sitting there, his back against the door to his tiny little flat, for at least half an hour, his mind repeating the scenario from outside over and over again.

Sherlock.

His best friend.

Not dead.

Having lied to John, having betrayed John, against John's firm belief in him.

Having run off to play with Moriarty.

Because he had, hadn't he?

What if John was wrong?

But no, the only possible conclusion.

And now he was back, back here, wanted John back…

It made him sick.

* * *

This night was the first one in many months that John poured himself a glass of whisky. And another one. And another one.

* * *

_I warned you. Angst. Not-happy reunion._

_Thank you for reading nonetheless, and please let me once more know what you thought._


	4. Three

_Thank you all. Really._

_Warnings... angst, once more._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Three

* * *

Sherlock didn't know where to go.

The blood was drying in his face, clogging his nose, staining his hoodie - the only one he had left -, but he didn't care. Did barely notice.

He didn't know where to go.

John.

John had… had shouted at him, had been angry at him, had hit him, had told him to…

Sherlock stumbled to the nearest street lamp and threw up.

John had…

He didn't understand.

He…

His knees were trembling madly and the coughing that had seized him did do nothing to stop him from starting to retch again.

John had…

Jumped to conclusions, Sherlock's brain came up with as he clung to the street lamp.

Jumped to…

He heaved again. Bringing up - nothing, in fact.

Jumped to conclusions. Had accused him of… playing games with Moriarty, didn't know that Moriarty had shot himself, that Sherlock hadn't had a choice, that he…

He needed to explain. Needed to explain it to John, then maybe…

But no.

Don't come back here, John had said. Leave me alone.

Girlfriend, John had a girlfriend now. And a job, and a new flat, and a life…

That was… good, wasn't it? All he had wanted, had wanted John to be safe, to be… to be back with him.

Back…

He didn't know where to go.

He had, he assumed, nowhere to go.

Only John, and John… John hadn't even let him explain.

John was angry, yes, Sherlock had expected this, but surely even John would understand that his life was infinitely more valueable than Sherlock's, that Sherlock hadn't had any choice, that…

John had said many things, Sherlock tried to remember as he stumbled forwards and coughed again. Many things.

About the game, about Moriarty, about not coming back, about how things worked…

He had been so fixated on John, on keeping John safe, on returning to John, John, John, John… that his mind was blank now.

Blank, absolutely empty.

221B, it came to him. He could go to 221B. Mrs Hudson. His old flat. _Their _old flat.

Which was probably inhabited again, by someone else, and which wouldn't feel right without John.

Mycroft. He could go to Mycroft. His brother…

Without any conscious decision, Sherlock knew that he wouldn't. Not this time, Moriarty's web had been taken care of, this, this was… his task. His alone.

His nose had stopped bleeding, he registered, oddly dazed. Dazed. John had… John had hit him.

John had hit him before, yes, but this time… it was different. He had meant it, had meant to hurt Sherlock, his entire posture displaying his rage and anger.

Betrayed, Sherlock realised, he felt betrayed.

Betrayed.

It wasn't right, it wasn't supposed to…

He needed to put it right. He needed to talk to John, to make him understand, to make him…

To make him take back his words. About coming back.

Sherlock coughed again as he staggered on, without any destination.

He had always had a destination in those past two years and ten months, John being his destination, and now…

Gone. Just like that.

It hurt, he found out, it hurt. Just like the nightmares had, although it wasn't physical, although…

John's words hurt far more than the punch and the kick.

He needed to talk to John again, he determined as his coughing turned into hacking and his vision blurred.

Needed to…

With something akin to surprise, he became aware of the wetness on his face, wetness apart from the rain.

Tears. Tears. Crying.

Needed to talk to John, needed…

Needed John.

* * *

This night, Sherlock slept under a bridge, wrapped into his last hoodie, hugging himself for a tiny bit of warmth and comfort.

And he did sleep, although he didn't intend to, did sleep because his body took control, insisted on blacking out.

He didn't dream.

* * *

The sky had cleared by the time he woke in the morning, cleared and it had stopped raining.

And he still didn't know what to do.

He had always known what to do, known which step was to follow, every day during these two years and ten months, all the time.

And now… when he had supposedly reached his aim, when he was back in London, finally, when he had left all of his struggle behind, he suddenly didn't have a plan anymore.

Not without John.

* * *

John didn't go to work the following day, nor did he phone Rose. He didn't even call in sick.

His head was about to explode - three glasses had turned into four, and four into five, and five, suddenly, into ten because John's vision had doubled -, and his right hand hurt, ironically, from the punch he had delivered to She- to Sherlock's face.

This time, however, not avoiding his nose and teeth, as he couldn't help but think.

Back from the dead. As John had begged him to, standing at his grave, such a long time ago.

One should be careful what one wished for.

John didn't even get up the following day. He stumbled to the kitchen to retrieve something for his headache, then wobbled back to his bed, almost hiding beneath the covers.

And, instinctively, risked a gaze outside of the window, to check if maybe, maybe, Sherlock had come back in the night, not paying attention to John's demand.

He didn't know, he had to admit to himself, what he would do then. Punch him again, or hug him, despite everything, just for a second, just long enough to reassure himself that his - former - best friend was indeed still alive.

John hadn't dreamt anything in that night, for once. No nightmares, no good dreams. Nothing. Thanks to the alcohol.

Harry would have scolded him, he was aware of that, but he didn't care.

He just wanted to forget.

Forget.

It was easier to concentrate on his fury, he had figured out until the evening. Much easier.

On his fury about the betrayal, about three years spent on his own, grieving for his dead best friend, not on his being hurt. Or on the thought why Sherlock was back now, why he had disappeared, what…

Fury and rage.

It helped him forget, forget the past three years, the past day.

A bit, at least.

His mobile rang, several times, but John didn't answer.

Rose, most likely, chatting mindlessly, wanting to go out with him. Again.

He should have ended it, he realised now, months ago. Because it could, in fact, never work out, because they were too different, too little alike.

A text should do, maybe.

In the very last second, he stopped himself from breaking up with his first long-time girlfriend in ages via text - and decided to call her the very next day, to tell her it was over, that he wasn't the right one for her. That she wasn't the right one for him.

However.

As he sat alone in his tiny little flat, in front of his TV, another glass of whisky next to him in the evening, he wondered suddenly how everything could have gone to hell so quickly.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Reviews are, as always, appreciated!_


	5. Four

_Thank you all once more._

_Next part._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Four

* * *

Despite the fact that he was a DI, it had never happened before that dead people were suddenly standing in his office.

Dead people.

A man who had committed suicide not three years ago, after having been accused of being a kidnapper and a fraud.

Greg Lestrade had spilled his coffee as soon as the door to his office had opened and a very familiar, but also very dead voice had addressed him.

A very dead voice.

Half an hour and another two cups of coffee and three cigarettes later - the end of quitting, apparently -, he was still sitting behind his desk, listening to the story of a man supposed to be dead.

Of a man who, frankly, looked more dead than alive.

And who told a story which was, in fact, hard to believe.

"Just…," Greg began, toying around with his biro. "Just to make sure I'm getting this right: You've spent the past three years with destroying Moriarty's 'web'? On your own?"

Sherlock - for it was Sherlock seated opposite of him, wearing a hoodie and jeans - nodded slowly. "Yes," he mumbled.

"And you faked your own death?" Greg wanted to know further.

Sherlock nodded again, not looking at him.

"And you went to see John and he punched you?" he repeated what Sherlock had told him.

A third nod.

Greg couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, you can't really blame him, can you?"

This time, Sherlock did look at him. Almost questioningly, if that had been possible with Sherlock Holmes.

Running a hand through his hair, Greg shook his head. "For God's sake, Sherlock, don't tell me you didn't even think about what this was doing to John!" he exclaimed.

He was angry, he assumed, and a tiny bit relieved, and… shocked, probably, too shocked to fully process what was going on.

Because dead men didn't simply appear in one's office. Except for Sherlock Holmes, apparently.

"We all thought you were dead and…"

"That was the plan," Sherlock mumbled slowly, gazing out of the window.

Something about his behaviour was utterly unsettling, Greg found. "Brilliant plan, really," he hissed. "John was… devastated," he concluded. "He… you can't imagine what he went through. He blamed himself, I think, and…"

Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat. "I… I didn't mean to…," he whispered, still facing away.

Greg could only shake his head. "I don't think this will be enough, Sherlock. Even _I'm _angry at you. You committed suicide and then you went off to… to destroy this web, as you say, to… toy with people, with their lives as if they… meant nothing to you, and then you come back and expect everything to be as it always was? No."

Sherlock remained silent, his head bent, oddly enough.

"Really, I think John was relatively mild when he only punched you once," he went on.

If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Sherlock's lower lip had started trembling.

"Why did you even fake your suicide?" he wanted to know, wondering whether it was justified to light another cigarette. "That's what I don't understand. Did you do it so that nobody would stop you?"

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle.

"Hello? You still with me?" Greg wanted to know and decided against another cigarette. Three per day were enough, especially for somebody who wanted to quit.

Sherlock seemed to flinch and for the first time turned towards Greg, his eyes slipping in and out of focus. "What… yes," he muttered, distractedly, rubbing his temple.

"Why are you here?" Greg wanted to know after a pause. Sherlock didn't look too fine, he suddenly realised, and that wasn't only due to the blood in his face. "Do you need a place to stay?"

This time surprise was clearly showing in Sherlock's face. "You… aren't you angry?" he wanted to know.

Greg leaned back in his chair. Was he? Yes. "Yes," he replied. "I'm in shock, I s'ppose. Maybe I've gone crazy and I'm talking to a ghost right now."

Sherlock didn't smile, his lips didn't even quiver.

"You can't just do things like that, Sherlock," Greg began to explain. "It's not… You can't just leave everyone behind, let everyone believe you're dead and then turn up again… How did you even do it?"

He hadn't expected an answer, and he didn't get one.

"I never meant to…," Sherlock mumbled eventually, closing his eyes for a second.

"That's not the point, Sherlock," Greg interrupted him. "The point is that you can't just come back, look at everyone and appear a tiny bit sad and everyone will forgive you. It doesn't work like that."

Sherlock swallowed and coughed, producing a rattling sound somewhere in his chest. "I need to talk to John," he then croaked, hoarsely. "Please… Greg."

He very nearly spit out the mouthful of coffee he had been about to swallow. "That's what I mean," he muttered, setting down the mug before he could shatter that one, too. "'Please' and remembering my name's not enough, Sherlock. Not this time."

Sherlock blinked and turned his head away once more. "I just need to… to talk to him," he whispered.

Greg sighed and barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Then why don't you go and do that?"

Once more, Sherlock didn't respond. Coughed, in fact, again.

Greg sighed a second time. "Okay, I'll call him. Nothing more, you get that? And don't think I've forgiven you already."

Very slowly, Sherlock got up, gripping the edge of Greg's desk so hard that his knuckles turned white. "Thank you," he croaked. "Can you… can you tell him… tomorrow evening, Apsley's?"

He was about to leave before Greg had the chance to answer. "Don't expect too much!" he shouted after him. "If I were him, I wouldn't forgive you that easily!"

Sherlock didn't reply anything else.

* * *

It took Greg half an hour and another cigarette before he finally succeeded in dialling John's number.

A dead man. Appearing in his office. And he was entirely calm. Calm.

His fingers were trembling now, and he wasn't so sure all of a sudden if he hadn't been dreaming.

"Yeah," John's hoarse voice answered the call.

"John," Greg greeted him, unsure how to go on. "Listen… I've just had a visitor."

John groaned at the other end of the line. "No, don't tell me. _He's _been there, hasn't he? Sherlock Holmes."

It shocked Greg, somehow, that John called his best friend by his full name. "Yeah," he replied. "Told me you punched him. And about what he did."

"Enjoying the game with Moriarty? Showing off his brilliant deductive skills? Leaving the rest of us ordinary people - those who thought we were his friends - behind, without even bothering to tell us anything?" John's voice leaked pure sarcasm.

Greg sighed. "Yeah," he simply repeated. "Listen, he wanted to meet you at…"

"Nope," John cut him off. "Not going to happen. I don't think… I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at him again."

Greg seriously found himself contemplating a fifth cigarette. "He didn't look well," he finally said.

John only huffed and laughed bitterly. "He didn't give a shit about what I felt like all those years. He just left and let everybody believe he was _dead_. Dead, Greg, dead… I… I can't. I just can't. This time, he's taken it too far. I just… No."

"Yeah," Greg echoed for the third time. "I'm sorry, John."

"Don't be," John muttered darkly. "Not your fault. _Sherlock's _fault."

Greg bit his lips. "Maybe…," he suggested, hesitating. "Maybe you should call him and tell him you're not coming."

This time, John chuckled. Harshly - not like John at all. "He didn't bother to call _me _for three years while _he _was having fun with Moriarty. Why should _I _call him now? No."

John ended the call before Greg could say anything else.

Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead, and yet, it didn't feel right. Absolutely not.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think._

_I'm rather fond of this chapter myself, I have to admit. Maybe because I like Greg._

_Anyway... Sherlock's going for a second attempt. And John...?_


	6. Five

_A huge thank you to everyone!_

_Today's the day, for a few chosen ones, to see the real reunion. The rest of us will have to wait for a bit longer... ;)_

_Memories of torture in this chapter. Angst, as always._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Five

* * *

This night, Sherlock spent on a park bench, too cold and too agitated to actually sleep, but too tired to do anything else but simply lie down.

Exhausted, he was exhausted. So very tired… But he couldn't sleep yet, couldn't, because he had to talk to John first, to try to convince him that it hadn't been his intention, that he was sorry, that…

Pathetic, he was being pathetic, a small part of him told him, but he ignored it. John, he needed John, otherwise… everything seemed… less brilliant, less intense, less… real with John.

Everything except the nightmares.

Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, exhaling carefully, only to be seized by a rattling coughing fit as soon as he inhaled again.

It was a success, probably, that he didn't fall off the bench while struggling for air.

His ribs… John had kicked him, hadn't he, additional to the blow to his nose, had…

Sherlock's left hand slid off the bench, hanging loosely over its edge, straining his upper arm and shoulder. He didn't think he would find the strength to lift it.

John, he needed to talk to John, to explain everything, to explain about Moriarty's schemes, about how sorry he was, how he hadn't intended to…

The stars above him were dim, dull, veiled, not bright without John.

Just until tomorrow. Just until tomorrow.

* * *

His entire body ached as he got up in the morning, and his stomach craved for food. Food he didn't think he would be able to keep down.

Food was… not important.

John, John was, in contrast to food.

He needed to be… presentable for John, needed to look… better, like his old self, needed to be clean and proper and neat. For John.

He still had money. A bit of money. Enough for a suit, enough to get out of this hoodie and those jeans. Enough to buy a toothbrush, and to shave. And maybe to have a shower, somewhere, at some station, maybe. And… he needed money to pay for John's meal. John…

Calling the restaurant and indeed managing to get a table for two was the first thing he did.

The entire park - Sherlock couldn't even remember which one - was swaying around him, funnily enough, but he didn't pay attention. The world was swaying, yes, of course, of course, the world was swaying when John wasn't here, when nothing was as it was supposed to be.

Distantly, very distantly, he registered that his thoughts weren't making much sense, that his brain just seemed to… to sway, as did the world, that he was feverish, probably.

He just needed John.

* * *

Sherlock didn't even exactly remember how he did it, but he managed to get to a shop, on shaking legs, gripping the edge of the seat on the tube so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his entire hand throbbed, and almost choking on the sandwich he had forced himself to buy and eat.

Suit, he needed a suit, a cheap one, very cheap, if possible.

He didn't know how long he had stood in front of one of the mannequins, in front of one wearing a jumper, until a voice suddenly addressed him.

Almost violently, he flinched, turning around, his heart picking up on speed.

Shop assistant, shop assistant, his sluggish mind provided him with, young woman, blond hair, her name tag saying: Joanna.

"Can I help you?" she repeated, staring at him.

Sherlock couldn't muster a coherent thought. Help, why would he need help from her, from that woman, from…

For a moment, he wondered what happened if he collapsed now, simply went out like a light, and never got to see John again. Never got to…

Pressing his eyes shut, he held his breath for a few seconds, swallowing the urge to cough, and then croaked: "Suit."

* * *

His stomach kept churning as the woman continued blabbering, presenting him one suit, another one, another one, one with a tie, with a bow tie, in blue, in white, in cream, in…

He simply followed her to the fitting room and let her close the curtain, then sank down, attempting to control his breathing, and buried his head in his hands, doing his best to stop his body from ejecting the sandwich he had managed to ingest.

"Are you alright?" the woman's voice made him jerk back into reality, and with shivering limbs, Sherlock fought his way out of his hoodie, never looking into the mirror, and into the first shirt and suit.

By the time she drew the curtain open to have a look at him, he had to cling to the wall to remain upright.

"…one size too large, at least," her words reached his ears.

One size too… In this moment, Sherlock knew, simply knew, that if he changed again, and again, and again, there would remain no strength in him to leave this fitting room ever again.

"I'll take it," he croaked and withdrew behind the curtain.

* * *

He was on his way out of the shop, back in his hoodie and his jeans, the clean, fresh, new suit carefully packed into a plastic bag, when he suddenly perceived red hair.

A man with red hair, rather long, broad shoulders, a grey jacket covering his upper body.

Red hair.

The bowl of water in front of him, looming, hands grabbing his head, shoving it forwards, shoving it under water, holding him down while he was struggling for air, struggling to breathe, to…

Waking, later, on the floor, soaking wet, laughter in his ears as he spat out water and coughed and coughed and coughed, trying to clear his lungs, his airway…

Kicks and punches, whipping, and always laughter.

Being tied down, his nose pinched shut, gagging on the funnel shoved down his throat, water being poured inside, drowning, gagging, without any choice but to swallow, swallow quickly, as water rushed into his mouth… The blessing of passing out, waking, again, on the floor, kicks on his swollen stomach making him throw up the water he had ingested, laughter surrounding him.

Voices asking him questions, about who he was, why he was after them, another punch for every time he failed to give a reply. Finally, after they had found out who he was, what he was doing, teasing him, telling him how they would come after John, how…

Red hair.

* * *

Then the man turned around, displaying the huge moustache on his face, people bumped into Sherlock, shockstill, and the moment was gone.

He didn't make it to the nearest toilet before he vomited violently, heaving, throwing up, coughing up mucus and sputum and blood at the same time.

Still trembling, his heart beating so wildly it was threatening to give out on him, Sherlock stumbled on, to the toilet, and locked himself in there, collapsing to the floor and heaving, bringing up nothing but bile and blood anymore.

* * *

Hours later, he had composed himself well enough to leave the shop, buy himself a bottle of cough syrup, a razor and shave in another public toilet, the blade lingering over the skin of his throat for a moment, his hands trembling madly. Wondering, for a second, just for a second, what if… if he simply slipped now.

John, needed to talk to John first, to talk to him, to explain…

He changed clothes again, tossed his dirty hoodie and the jeans into the nearest bin, wearing a suit now, cheap, so very cheap, but at least… better than this hideous hoodie.

He needed three attempts to light the last cigarette he still owned, didn't care about the smoke aggravating his throat and triggering coughing fits.

John, he just needed to hold on until the evening, needed to talk to John, to impress him, to make him listen.

Needed to get to the restaurant first. Then talk to John.

* * *

His heart was pounding heavily in his throat by the time he entered, much too early, and took a seat at the table, both of his hands trembling against his thighs, nervously, feebly, doing everything not to break into a coughing fit. Taking another large gulp from the syrup.

John, John, John, John…

A mantra in his head, another one, repeating itself.

If John didn't come… Sherlock didn't know, really didn't know, what he was going to do then.

The waiter came three times to ask for his order, but Sherlock always waved him off, ordering nothing but one glass of water, stifling more than one coughing fit, gestured him to wait, to wait longer, to wait even more.

The doors opened ever so often, but it was never John who entered.

Never John.

Minutes passed, minutes turned into hours, the waiter grew impatient, and finally, as the restaurant was about to close for the night, Sherlock had to admit that John wasn't coming.

Wasn't coming.

It… it hurt.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Please leave some feedback._


	7. Six

_Wow, I had never actually expected this fic to receive such amazing response, when only so little time is left until the real reunion! I'm... over the moon, seriously._

_There is one thing, however, I felt the need to point out: Personally, I don't think it's cruel what John's doing. You all know how Sherlock feels, what he's thinking, what he's been through... but John doesn't. He only knows that he thought his best friend dead, and said best friend suddenly turns up again, expecting everything to be normal again. I don't want to offend anybody - I just wanted to clarify the original intention._

_Now... enjoy!_

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Six

* * *

He stood outside, in the soft drizzle, in his new suit, and wondered what he had done wrong. Whether his invitation had been too blunt, or too posh, or too cheap, or… Whether Lestrade had forgotten to phone John, whether he hadn't been able to reach John, whether John was alright…

Alright.

His blood froze in his very veins upon this thought. He had believed to have left this behind, the continued fear and threat, but maybe, just maybe, one of the assassins, one of Moriarty's men had survived, had sneaked up upon John, to take revenge…

The thought alone made Sherlock's legs shake more violently beneath him.

Check, he needed to check. Needed to talk to John, one last time, needed to tell him things that were important and that he had never said before.

Needed to tell him he was sorry, that he had never meant for him to be hurt, that…

Sherlock shivered in the rain.

Cab. He didn't have enough money for a cab, had left it at the restaurant, together with his old mobile, just rushing outside, away from there. Tube. Tube. Nobody would recognise him there, not after three years, nobody ever recognised a dead man. Walk. He couldn't walk, couldn't. Tube.

* * *

In the end, he took the tube, allowing his head to slump against the cool window of the train, the journey blurring, the world quickly fading around him. His coughing, he became aware of after a while, was sickening, apparently, because everybody had taken a seat far from him, leaving him alone, isolated.

Alone. Without John.

He got off the tube as soon as he spotted a ticket inspector, not having found the energy to buy a ticket.

Walked the rest of the distance to John's new flat.

Walked, set one foot in front of the other, the only thing that kept him going being the thought of John.

He had kept his friend safe, until now, had done everything he could to protect him, and all he wanted was to come back. To John, to 221B, to home, to a life where he wasn't in danger all the time, where he wasn't likely to be captured, and imprisoned, and tortured… Sherlock shuddered involuntarily, his breath hitching, squeezing his eyes shut, tensing.

No. Over, it was over.

Home. Back. To John.

To forget. To simply… forget.

* * *

John didn't answer his door bell. Didn't open the door.

Sherlock didn't give up. Couldn't give up, because if he did, then what was still left for him?

"What do you want," John's voice finally snarled at him.

Sherlock's knees gave in. "John…," he whispered, clutching the handle of the door. And coughing, his hacking preventing him from uttering another understandable word.

"What do you want," John's voice repeated.

"Please…," Sherlock wheezed, pressing one hand against his stabbing lungs. Stabbing, preventing him from speaking, but… "Let me… explain…"

Pause.

Pause.

Sherlock closed his eyes and loosened his grip.

Over. It was over. John didn't…

"Fine," John growled. "Stay where you are. I'm coming downstairs."

Fine.

Sherlock had never felt so light in his entire life.

* * *

John did come down, faster than Sherlock had expected, opening the door, violently, almost sending Sherlock, still gripping it for support, stumbling inside.

"What do you want," John repeated, suddenly sounding… tired. Simply tired, nothing else.

"Let me explain," Sherlock whispered, his throat narrowing, constricting, becoming too tight to breathe properly. His lungs were protesting, convulsing, cramping, but he didn't pay attention.

"I don't think there's anything to explain," John replied.

Whisky, he smelled of whisky, Sherlock's sluggish brain provided him with. "I didn't…," he began, coughing. Violently. Holding his breath, violently. Kept talking, painfully. "…Moriarty's dead," he choked.

At first, nothing happened.

The John crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Ah," he made. "Is that why you're back? Because you suddenly remembered me, the stupid old army doctor? Your _friend_?"

Stupid old…

Grey, John's hair was grey. John…

Everything in front of him was blurring as he attempted to shake his head.

This was wrong, this was all so very wrong.

"…not… stupid…," he whispered. "John, I'm sorry…"

John chuckled, for a second. "I'm afraid that doesn't quite cover the matter," he remarked, still not giving up his defensive posture.

"I didn't… didn't do it to…" He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. But he needed to tell John, to tell him everything. "Did it to… keep you safe… and Lestrade… and Mrs… Hudson… had… had snipers on you… threatened you…"

His vision swam and he couldn't see anything else but John's eyes, boring into his. "Keep you… safe…," he repeated, launching into another coughing fit, his fingers tightening around his shirt, clawing into the fabric.

John shook his head, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he muttered. "Do you expect me to believe you? After you faked your own death, lied to me in your final phone call, and then came back, after three years? I'm sorry if I don't believe you."

Don't… believe… you…

Sherlock's eyes started watering.

"And this pitiful look and appearance won't work on me," John commented, tiredly. Tiredly. John was exhausted, tired, sad, because of him. Because of him.

He needed John.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock's legs disappeared beneath him, his narrowing throat and his fast-beating heart threatened to suffocate him, to choke him. And he couldn't stop coughing. "John…," he gagged, desperately gasping for breath. "Please…"

"I'm sorry," John repeated.

Sorry…

He was sorry, he was the one to feel sorry, to… "Please," he whispered, giving up the last bit of pride he had still had. Giving up everything. "John… help me."

For a moment, John seemed to falter.

Sherlock's eyes were locked on John's face, his face displaying… anger, hurt, worry, maybe. A tiny step forwards, Sherlock registered dazedly, spots dancing in front of his eyes, before John stopped and crossed his arms again.

"This trick won't work on me again, Sherlock," John told him curtly, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not falling for your acting again."

Sherlock's body jerked a tiny bit as he sucked in precious oxygen, precious air. John couldn't…

"Listen, you can give up your pretence now, or I can call an ambulance that'll take you to hospital," John went on, retreating slowly. "I'm not that stupid, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Ambulance… Sorry…

"John…," Sherlock breathed, clawing at his throat, trying to ignore the pain in his lungs and in his heart.

The door closed.

Sherlock doubled over.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. I'm curious to hear about your opinion._


	8. Seven

_I am truly and utterly stunned by the ever increasing amount of feedback and support. It's amazing, really! Thank you._

_I'm sorry for the tiny delay._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Seven

* * *

John lay awake for many hours.

He was staring at the dark ceiling, unseeing, trying to process everything that had happened in the past… two? three… How many days? God, it was already blurring in his head.

He had had a life, ordinary, plain, boring, a girlfriend, a job, had been doing well, finally, after all those months, and then, one evening, just as if nothing had happened, Sherlock had stood in front of his door, apologising.

No, not if nothing had happened.

He hadn't even deduced John, he realised only now. Not a single deduction, no snarky comment about his boring little flat, about his boring, mundane life, about his boring mundane girlfriend. Nothing.

Just an apology.

An apology.

Sherlock _never _apologised. And if he did, if he did so because he had drugged John's coffee, it didn't… it had never sounded… like that. Had never sounded so… sincere.

Abruptly, John turned to his side and pressed his eyes shut.

Sincere. A sincere apology.

Then the call Greg had given him. Telling him that Sherlock wanted to meet him, to talk to him. Talk about what?

About why he had lied to John and disappeared for three years, probably. Had not only lied to John, but had betrayed all of them, everyone who had considered Sherlock their friend.

John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Molly, too.

What about Mrs Hudson? John didn't even want to imagine her reaction when somebody told her that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he had just pulled a stunt and fooled them all.

And, worst of it, had let them live with their guilt and grief for three long years.

Of course John hadn't agreed to Sherlock's invitation.

Of course not, after all, who would, after what Sherlock had done?

John ran a hand over his face. Oh God.

_Of course _he hadn't come, he told himself.

He bit his lip as he remembered the evening, when he had sat in front of the telly, ignoring calls from Rose, not even paying attention to what he was watching.

Until the door bell had rang, late in the night.

John wasn't an idiot. He had known who it would be, had known it immediately.

Who else but Sherlock bloody Holmes?

He should be angry, he assumed, furious, livid for what Sherlock's staged death had done to him, furious at Sherlock. But, he had found, he couldn't muster the energy anymore. Suddenly, while he kept listening to the door bell ringing again and again, he had just felt… empty. Drained. As if the life he had lived, everything in his life, together with Sherlock, and after Sherlock, had been a lie.

A lie.

As if he hadn't even known the man he had called his best friend.

Drained, as if the very life had been sucked out of him.

The door bell hadn't stopped ringing.

Finally, John had given in, answering it, even agreeing to coming downstairs.

Why, he didn't even know. Couldn't name it. Maybe because he had hoped, hoped against all odds, that Sherlock did have an explanation, other than that he had enjoyed playing the game with his favourite psychopath, other than that he hadn't wasted many thoughts on John during these three years.

He had opened the door, and Sherlock had been there, clinging to it, coughing, doing everything, probably, to look miserable, to make John pity him.

John still remembered the drugged coffee in Grimpen and the look Sherlock's eyes had had back then.

It was the same now, almost. Almost.

Almost, because something had seemed off, something, but John hadn't allowed himself to dwell on that, to think about it. Still didn't permit himself to do so, in fact.

John had let Sherlock explain. A bit.

And he couldn't help it, his throat had narrowed at the sight of his friend - whom he still cared for, he had to admit, which was why it _hurt _so much - coughing and panting at his front door.

Oh yes, Sherlock had always been a good actor, John only had to recall the final phone call. He had believed Sherlock, had believed he was in genuine distress, wasn't just acting. But then, he hadn't been aware of the fact that Sherlock was _that _good, until now.

He had let Sherlock explain, just a tiny bit, and it had been enough.

Moriarty was dead, apparently.

John swallowed dryly and opened his eyes. Dead. Moriarty. Finally.

And of course now, robbed of his partner in crime, Sherlock had come back.

It _hurt_.

And had apologised again, coming up with an excuse, with a camouflage John wasn't willing to believe anymore.

Not after… this. He was disappointed, he had to admit as he turned on his back again, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

Back then, downstairs, next to his own front door, he had felt like collapsing, like weeping and screaming and just… letting all the emotions, the anger, the hurt, the grief, the disappointment, the… ridiculous relief that Sherlock was alive, out, simply giving in to them.

God, he was tired. He needed to sleep.

Just transport, a voice in his head said.

John growled and tossed his pillow at the wall.

Sherlock's defensive, his wheezy apology kept ringing in his ears, not willing to leave him alone.

Did it to keep you safe, Sherlock had told him.

Even now, John had to bite back the chuckle. To keep him safe. It was even true, probably, in Sherlock's opinion. He had played with Moriarty, had kept him busy, had indeed kept him away from John and London. John had never heard of that man again, not a single word, until Sherlock had come back.

Had distracted Moriarty from John, and had nonetheless enjoyed their game.

Hadn't even thought about sparing one phone call, one text, just to let his friends - _friends!_ - know that he wasn't dead.

Sometimes, John was reminded of the fact that he wasn't made to understand what was going on in Sherlock's head.

Kept him safe.

He was alive, yes, of course, but… what kind of life? Grieving for his best friend - the man he had believed his best friend to be, and whom he had believed dead.

Life.

John bit his lip in order to stop himself from sobbing.

Maybe he should entertain the idea of a third glass of whisky this evening.

God, he was behaving like a dumped boyfriend.

He should have known, shouldn't he? Everybody had told him, right from the beginning.

Sally Donovan, their very first meeting. Psychopath. Will always let you down. One day he'll cross the line.

John had never paid attention to her words, had kept believing in Sherlock.

Because he thought, had thought, and had, as it appeared, been wrong, that Sherlock was, in fact, in spite of his cold manner and distanced behaviour, a good man, someone who cared.

Even now, John didn't want to admit that he had been wrong.

Snipers, Sherlock had said. Threatened you.

Now, he did in fact chuckle. Bitterly, of course.

He didn't know what he was supposed to think of that, but then… maybe Sherlock had told him the truth. Had given in, willingly, to enjoy the game with Moriarty, with _Jim_, and in return Moriarty had removed the snipers.

Snipers.

Dear God.

If he kept pondering like that, he was sooner or later going to doubt reality.

It had to have been a lie, because such things didn't happen in real life. People didn't have arch enemies, people didn't get threatened by snipers. And people normally didn't fake their own suicides.

Arch enemies. Faked suicides.

Sleeping pill, he decided, slowly getting to his feet.

The really shocking thing was that a part of him wanted to believe Sherlock. Wanted to trust him, and forgive him.

But… John couldn't. Not like that. Maybe never. Maybe after a while, after months, after years, maybe…

He didn't know.

He gulped down the tablet without water, tottered back to bed.

He couldn't deal with Sherlock now. And nothing Sherlock did could convince John otherwise, he assumed. Not even his pitiful appearance.

He just… no. He couldn't.

Not even if Sherlock begged him, apparently.

Begged him.

"Oh God," John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

It hurt, still, somehow.

No. He was over it. He had a life now. He didn't need Sherlock anymore, he had been fine for three years, he didn't need a friend who just… left for three years, and then expected everything to be back to normal.

Begged him.

"Sod it," he muttered and got up again. Slowly walked over to the window, drew back the curtain. Stared down, to where Sherlock had been a while ago.

Nothing. Nobody.

Of course. Off to somewhere else, then.

John's fingers curled into the thick fabric of the curtain. He could go downstairs and… Sherlock hadn't looked well, really not. Acting, it had to be, good acting, superior acting. But then… John's heart gave a familiar lurch at the thought of his best friend. Best friend, or former best friend?

"Christ," he mumbled and let go of the curtain abruptly.

His phone on the bedside table looked very inviting.

John hesitated.

No. He wasn't going to run after Sherlock now, or call him. Not… he couldn't. Not now. Not yet.

Sherlock had had him waiting for three years, and he… no. This time, Sherlock wouldn't get away that easily.

Swallowing dryly and clenching his hands into fists, he climbed back into his bed.

John didn't find any sleep that night.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_I hope you liked it._


	9. Eight

_Hello once more! I know I keep repeating myself, but there really isn't much else I could say apart from: Thank you._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Eight

* * *

Sherlock made it around the next corner.

There the last bits of his strength left him and his legs started wobbling, even more so than before, gave way beneath him, there he collapsed to the concrete, coughing again.

John had… John didn't… didn't want him.

Anymore.

Didn't want a damaged version of him, probably. Didn't want a sick version. Had told him to leave, didn't accept his apology.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd want himself in that way, either.

John had a life now, he tried to tell himself, a life, without him, a good life, he didn't need Sherlock anymore, there was no room for him now, there…

His eyes started watering as he kept coughing.

For a moment, a short moment, he had given in to the thought of simply staying in front of John's flat, too tired to move, too weak, but… John wanted him to leave, and after everything Sherlock had done to him, he owed him. One last favour. Owed him that he at least disappeared when John wanted him to.

It didn't matter now anyway.

Ambulance, John had said.

Hospital, care, medication…

He was sick, Sherlock was aware of that, had been for a while, his persistent cough wasn't normal, his nightmares weren't, the pain in his chest wasn't.

Sick.

Who cared, now? What did he care?

He had done what he had intended to, had kept John safe, and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and now… he couldn't come back, not really, couldn't have back the life he had been longing for all the time.

Couldn't simply go back to what he had been, to where he had been.

Not to John, not to Mrs Hudson, not to Lestrade.

Molly, he could go to Molly.

Slowly, on trembling forearms, Sherlock managed to shove himself up a tiny bit.

No. Molly was… Molly didn't need him, Molly deserved a proper life, too, didn't need him messing again, didn't…

The thought slipped out of his mind as he slumped back to the cool concrete.

Over. It was over.

Truly over.

And he couldn't go on. Not like that. Didn't even want to, in the end.

Defective. He was defective.

Defective detective. Former detective. It wasn't surprising that John didn't want him back.

John had moved on, had built up a life, an existence, with a job, a girlfriend, with everything he could possibly want, could possibly long for.

It had been three years, and three years were a long time, a very long time.

Stupid, in fact, of him not to suspect this.

And John was right. Right. Because, if it hadn't been for Sherlock, he would have never got into contact with Moriarty, would have never had a bomb stripped to him, or a sniper trained on his head.

His fault. All his fault.

He shouldn't even have gone back. Would have been better. For John, for John…

His coughing didn't subside.

If he had still had his mobile, he would have called John, he was sure of that. Would have called him and begged him to help him, to take him back, to take care of him as he had always done, to make it all go away.

Maybe it was good he didn't have his phone anymore, left it at the restaurant, only thinking about John. Shouldn't pester John. Shouldn't bother him. Not now.

John, John, John, John…

The only thought he had been able to hold on to, keeping John safe, coming back to John, to their flat.

He had been aware that things would change, would have changed, probably, that maybe John was engaged, or had moved out, was angry at him, at first, but would let him explain, be still angry at him, but see the reason behind what Sherlock had done.

Maybe there wasn't any reason behind it.

His head was hurting, and his lungs were hurting, and he couldn't think, not anymore, not without John.

Where was he?

Still in that cellar, probably, the damp cellar where he had spent hours and days, on his own, his solitude only interrupted by his captors, three members of Moriarty's vast network, who only came in to ask him who he was, why he was after them, what he was planning next, who wanted him to spill everything he knew.

Sherlock didn't spill anything.

He kept his mouth shut - did he still need to, or was it over? He didn't remember, even tried not to scream when they did their best to make him talk. Did he succeed? No. He recalled screaming, screaming when they… when they broke the fingers of his right hand, and when they burned him, and gasping when they attempted to drown him, and…

With a violent shudder, Sherlock came back to reality, his cheek resting on the rough concrete, in a misty London, not even one street away from John.

John.

He had always seen John's face in the moments when it had been worst, when the thought of why he was going through this had threatened to escaped his battered brain, John's face smiling at him, the wrinkles around his eyes disappearing when he did so, John telling him "a bit not good", Mrs Hudson's gentle smile when she offered him a cup of tea or biscuits, when she insisted that she wasn't his housekeeper, Lestrade's slightly amused face when Sherlock started solving another crime for him.

John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade.

John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade.

Those three names.

An endless mantra.

He still could go back to John's flat. Simply lie there, in front of his door, as close to John as possible, as close to John as he would ever get again in this life.

No, he decided, distantly aware of his own coughing.

He had to be fine without John. Safe, safe, safe…

Needed to get away from here. Somewhere else.

But where?

He didn't have anywhere to go.

Not John's, not Lestrade's, not Baker Street. He could not risk giving Mrs Hudson, dear, old Mrs Hudson, a heart attack.

Heart attack…

Away from here.

"John…," he mumbled as he forced himself to his knees first, then to his feet, lurching forwards unsteadily.

No. Wrong. Not John.

Somewhere else.

Mycroft. His brother was busy, probably, at the moment, still busy with Moran and… Sherlock held his breath, his fingers clawing at his own throat. Not this time. Even his brother couldn't help him. Didn't need help, needed to…

Just… just to lie down and… forget. Forget about everything.

He still knew London, he knew places, places he could go without bothering John again. Places where nobody would look, nobody, nobody at all, would be suspicious, or pay attention.

He needed help, he realised belatedly, medical help, needed food, something to drink…

No, wrong, he corrected himself, staggering on. He needed John.

Without John, he was… lost.

Lost.

He had been lost for a long time, Sherlock pondered hazily.

Lost without John.

So be it.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	10. Nine

_Thank you all, once more._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Nine

* * *

Sherlock didn't show up again that night.

John didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Again.

Relieved, he told himself, and nonetheless continued tossing and turning in his bed.

Sherlock's words kept echoing in his head, his coughing kept ringing in his ears, and the more he thought about this meeting, about Sherlock's appearance and behaviour, the more his restlessness and uneasiness increased.

Help me, Sherlock had said. Had apologised, repeatedly, had attempted to explain everything, and…

And John hadn't let him. As soon as he had heard that Moriarty was dead, everything had seemed so obvious, he had just lost all patience, all resolve to listen to Sherlock.

Keep you safe. Snipers.

Keep you safe.

Sherlock had wanted to talk to him, did apparently have an explanation, in his opinion. Sherlock always had an explanation, for everything, never did anything without a reason.

A reason.

Acting, it had to have been acting, his coughing, his apparent weakness. Acting… it _couldn't _be, though. The worst was, John _knew _it wasn't, knew, deep in his heart, that Sherlock had to be ill, in need of… in need of a friend, probably.

Three years. Sherlock had left him for three years, had let him believe that he was dead, had betrayed him, and lied to him.

"Damn it," John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock _still _was his friend, he _still _cared for that idiot, he couldn't help it, not now, when he was finally able to see past his anger.

They _needed _to talk. If just for John's own sake.

Groaning, John reached for his phone and dialled, dialled a number he still knew by heart.

He would never find out if he didn't give Sherlock the chance to explain.

"The number you called…"

Of course. How could he have expected Sherlock to still have the same phone number? John didn't even know what had happened to Sherlock's phone after…

Greg, he could call Greg.

Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft… He hadn't talked to Mycroft since… since the funeral.

A quick glance at his clock put an end to all thoughts of calling anyone. Quarter to four in the night.

Massaging his aching temple, John haphazardly put his mobile back to the bedside table and threw himself back into his pillows.

* * *

He managed to drag himself to work the next day, having found no sleep at all, despite the sleeping pill.

Dragged himself to work, diagnosed people, subconsciously waiting for Sherlock's face to appear and beg him for forgiveness once more, attempt another explanation. He knocked over three people in his haste to turn somebody around, somebody with curly dark hair - and to find out seconds later that he didn't even remotely look like Sherlock.

Too tanned, too stout, too small.

It was fine, John tried to tell himself, still ignoring all the calls Rose was giving him. He wondered when she finally would get the hint and realise that it was over.

Over.

Continued sitting in his office, behind his desk, supposed to listen to people's problems, supposed to help them, to be a doctor, when all he could think about was how he had sent his friend - friend, still - away. Had sent him away, for the second time, when Sherlock had begged him for help. When Sherlock had come to John of all people, to apologise, to try to explain.

Smiling faintly, barely registering what he was doing, he handed a medication prescription to the woman sitting opposite of him, attempting to force his stiff lips into a smile.

Sherlock, on the concrete in front of Bart's. Mourning him, grief, the feeling of loss, missing his bloody best friend. Visiting his grave, pleading for one more miracle.

John's hand started trembling as soon as he recalled that moment.

One more miracle.

He had been given his miracle, hadn't he? Sherlock was back, was alive, had come back.

Had left, yes, of course, for three years, but…

Alive.

The woman opposite of him asked him something. John simply nodded, not paying attention whether it was a suitable reaction or whether he had just confirmed something that was clearly wrong.

For God's sake.

He had spent three years with _missing _Sherlock, missing that bloody idiot because he had thought him dead, and…

Missing him.

He bloody _missed _Sherlock. Still did, even after everything he knew. Missed him, missed his best friend, because that was what they were. Had been. Were. Best friends.

And Sherlock hadn't looked too well, even in the dim light of only one street lamp.

"Damn it," John cursed under his breath and jumped up from his chair.

He still cared for that bloody man, and he would be damned if he let get Sherlock away now so easily.

* * *

Greg Lestrade found himself on his phone while his team was busy with arresting a man they had been after for a few weeks, found himself on the phone without actually knowing what he was doing.

"John?" he asked in disbelief, taking a few steps away from Donavan next to him. "What's wrong?"

"Greg." John sounded breathless. "You seen Sherlock lately?"

"What? John," Greg attempted to cut him off rather awkwardly. "I'm a bit busy here."

"Sherlock," John's voice repeated, not paying any attention to what Greg had interjected. "He came to you, didn't he? Have you seen him?"

Once more, Greg didn't know what to answer. "What? John, what are you on about? He…"

"Sherlock wanted to talk to me yesterday, came to my flat, and I sent him away," John explained hastily, almost too fast for Greg's surprised brain to follow. "I think…"

"Yeah?" Greg interrupted, watching two members of his team shove their criminal into a police car. "You want to tell me he deserved it?"

Funnily enough, John hesitated for a moment. "Yes," he then agreed. Greg already felt a slight smirk spread on his face when John went on: "Greg, I think I might have made a mistake."

"Mistake? Why?" he asked, simultaneously gesturing at Donavan to get into their car. Mistake?

"Because I sent him away!" John suddenly snapped, almost impatiently. "You saw him, too, didn't you? Listen, he came to me for help, and he's sick, and…"

"John," Greg interrupted him, approaching the car and Donavan. God, the paperwork to do would be awful. "Don't you think, you know... he can take care of himself? After everything… you know?"

After everything. Greg didn't even want to imagine how John had to feel.

Christ. Coffee, he was going to need some coffee later. Coffee, or another cigarette?

John sighed on the other end of the line. "I don't know," he eventually answered. "It's just… You haven't seen him? Got any phone number?"

Phone number? Why should he… Something in John's voice, however, made him stop for a moment.

He's sick, John had said.

"Yeah, he wasn't looking well," Greg muttered, more to himself, and only afterwards remembered John's question. "No, heard nothing of him. Sorry, John."

John remained silent for a while.

"John?" Greg enquired carefully. "You alright?"

"What, yeah," John replied distractedly. "Listen, Greg, if you… if you see him, would you… call me?"

Something about John's words. Cigarette, definitely, later, Greg decided, opening the door of the car with his free hand, but still hesitating outside. "You sure you're alright?" he wanted to know.

"Yeah," John simply repeated.

"And Sherlock?" Greg added, as quietly as possible.

This time, John didn't answer.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know where he was. Didn't know where he was, or why he was here, or where he had wanted to go.

Dizzy, so dizzy, everything moving around him, the walls next to him, the bright sky, the…

His eyes closed, involuntarily.

Cold, so cold. Shivering, he was shivering, his arms were already around his torso, curled up as much as possible, but… but it was no use.

Cold, why was it so cold? It shouldn't…

Pain exploded in his intestines as coughs rattled in his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.

Where was he, where… were they still after him, where was John, where…

He could feel nothing but the cold, disrupted by the pain, covered by the cold.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	11. Ten

_Thank you once more._

_Merry Christmas to everyone out there!_

_Then, secondly, warnings of mention of torture. Not exactly suitable for Christmas, but... it's the best I can offer you for now, and it'll bring you closer to the final reunion._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Ten

* * *

John returned to his office. Of course he did, because what else was there to do?

Returned to his office, dealt with the next patient and then thought about calling Mrs Hudson for the first time, struck by the idea that maybe, maybe, Sherlock had returned to their former flat.

He hadn't, as he found out only minutes later when Mrs Hudson asked him concernedly if he was alright, if he was sick, delirious, and ended with: "I miss him, too, dear, but… he's gone, you know."

John, croaking a hoarse good-bye, hung up on her.

She didn't know then, didn't know that Sherlock was alive, that he hadn't died three years ago, hadn't seen him.

Or was he delirious? Was he mad, beginning to look for a man everybody else thought dead, worrying about him, willing to talk to him, to let him explain?

No, he wasn't. Well, maybe, yes, but then it was this kind of madness, of exhilarating insanity he had been missing for three years.

* * *

It was in the late afternoon of the very same days that Lestrade called him.

"Yeah?" he answered the phone, his heart picking up on speed.

"John," Greg addressed him, his voice tight. "Do you have a minute? I think you should… come to New Scotland Yard for a bit."

John frowned and attempted to smile at the patient sitting in front of him at the same time. New Scotland Yard? "What? Why?"

Greg's initial reaction consisted of nothing but silence. "We've… we've caught someone, a double murderer, and he's confessed and also… well, he started telling us things, about Sherlock. About what he's been up to in the… you know. I think you should hear this."

Clenching his phone more tightly, John willed his hand to stop trembling. "Is that important now?" he wanted to know. "Haven't heard anything from Sherlock yet, have you?"

"Yeah, I think it is," Greg croaked, answering only John's first question. "And no, I haven't heard from him. But… I think you were right. We… we might have made a mistake."

A mistake.

"Greg…," John began. "I'm at work, and I only need to talk to Sherlock, not…"

"John!" Lestrade cut him off. "I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important. Now, will you come?"

Will you come.

A question that still made John cringe, a question which had, formerly, been directed at Sherlock and not at him.

"Alright," he agreed, his heart pounding in his throat. "Give me half an hour."

* * *

It was a full hour, in fact, before he slowly, self-consciously, walked upstairs to Greg's office, a place where he hadn't been to in ages. Since… since their last case. Since the abduction of those two children Sherlock had been blamed for.

With a renewed sudden certainty, sudden security, John knew, just knew, that Sherlock hadn't had a hand in this. Never ever.

Greg looked positively anxious when John entered, without bothering to knock.

"So," he began. "What's going on? Why did you want me here?"

Greg got up so quickly he almost sent his chair toppling over. "There's something I need to show you," he announced darkly.

"We caught him in the morning, and he confessed during the day," Greg told him on the way to… John didn't even know where to. If he was being honest, he didn't even know what exactly was happening at the moment, or what he was doing here. "We have of course recorded what he said, and… He's talking about Sherlock, and about what Sherlock's been doing in the past three years."

After a moment of tensing involuntarily, John sighed and rubbed his aching forehead, feeling an echo of his anger well up once more. Three years, time Sherlock spent with doing God knew what. "Is that important now?" he wanted to know. "I'd prefer to hear from Sherlock why he lied to all of us and not from some random serial killer. But if you haven't hear from him…"

"Yeah, I thought you were gonna say that," Lestrade muttered and held open the door for John. "Just listen to the recording, and tell me what you think."

John nodded curtly. Lestrade's next words, however, made his skin crawl a tiny bit.

"I warn you. It's not going to be pleasant."

* * *

John was sure he had paled during the fifteen minutes of the recording Greg had made him listen to.

"Do you…," he had to clear his throat first, his hands clenched into rigid fists. "Do you think it's… it's genuine?"

Greg shrugged, sighing deeply. "I don't know. That's the problem. He's a criminal, yes, but then, why should he be lying?"

"Can we… can we listen to it… again?" John croaked.

Lestrade frowned. "Really?"

John nodded. "Yeah."

Greg pressed play.

* * *

"Well, you caught me in the end, eh? You caught me… that's something you're great amateur detective never managed."

"Great amateur detective?"

A chuckle, deep and bitter. "Yeah. Sherlock Holmes, remember his name? The one who committed suicide. Only that he didn't. Jumped off that roof and had a plan… He was after me, y'know. Never got me, though. Wasn't fast enough. They got him first, 's far as I know."

"Who? Your accomplices?"

"Naw, not really. Well, the spider's dead, so I think I can tell ye now. Moriarty's other men. Other members of his web. They got him before he got me, and they let me watch once. I never worked for the spider, y'know. Too dangerous. One never knew. But you get to know certain people, so… I knew them, too, heard rumours about what they were doing on the spider's command, and then heard rumours about how members of the organisation were killed, one by one. They suspected others, at first, thought he was dead. I was working with them, back then, so he came after me… to get closer to them, I s'ppose. Well, didn't work out that well. They got him, and…"

"Who got him?"

"Moriarty's men. Let me watch once… man, I know why I didn't wanna work for him. I mean it. I've seen much, dead people and everything, but…"

"_Who _got him?"

"Don't know any names. Nobody ever knows. They recognised him, after a while, wanted to know about his plans, about the others he was after, but he didn't spill. Didn't say much at all, before he blacked out, only kept whispering his doctor's name."

Another chuckle. "Didn't help him, though. They kept going on him, and…"

"Going?"

"Yeah, y'know. Tortured him. Pretty good at it. Whatever you can imagine, they did it. Kept him for… dunno, one week?"

"And then?"

"Well… he escaped. Don't ask me how, but the next thing I knew - hadn't heard from them in a while - was that they were dead, dead and gone, killed by someone… Well, I knew it had to have been him, didn't I? Kept my mouth shut - or I was gonna be the next one. But he never got me, in the end. Got tired, maybe. Lost his sass."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Giggling, this time. "Yeah, that's what he wanted everybody to believe. Worked, didn't it? But no, he isn't. Wasn't, at least, but very close to, I'd say. Surprised he didn't show up here already. Haven't heard from him yet, have you, eh?"

"I have." Greg's voice, interrupting.

"You have? Then he helped you, eh, didn't he? To catch me… Went back to his doctor, then, did he? Surprised that man wanted him back, damaged as he was…"

"Why would he do that? Why would he pretend to be dead and kill criminals?"

Laughter. "He didn't tell you, then? Or didn't you listen? The spider's plan, 's far as I know. Wanted to force him to suicide. Threatened to shoot his beloved doctor. You know, how come that parts of the underworld know about that and you don't?"

"So he…"

"Took revenge, yeah. Killed Moriarty's men. Did a bloody good job. Well, got captured a few times, I think, but somehow, he always managed to sneak out alive… Maybe he's bit the dust, when he's not come back yet. Who knows. Well, I've heard from someone else…"

* * *

John smashed the recorder against the wall where it shattered into a thousand pieces, panting hard. "Greg," he whispered, his heart thumping against his ribs, his head reverberating with the fast beat. "Do you think… do you think it's true? What he's saying?"

Greg only shrugged, nervously running his hand through his hair. "No idea, have I? That's why I've called you."

Stars were blinking in front of John's eyes. Stars of dizziness.

Damn it. He needed to talk to Sherlock anyway, but if it was true, if… His own cruelty suddenly made John sick.

"Where is he," he choked. "That man. Where is he. I need to talk to him."

"John…," Greg began hesitantly. "I don't think that's a good-"

"No! Just show me!" John shouted. Needed to make sure, needed to make sure that this man had been lying, that the mistake he had made in sending Sherlock away hadn't been even more terrible, that he…

If he had, if he had the mistake he was afraid he had… God help him.

Greg nodded.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Please let me know what you thought._

_And, once more, merry Christmas!_


	12. Eleven

_Thank you for your continued support! Please remain so very kind and encouraging._

_Although this chapter was finished yesterday, I simply couldn't bring myself to post Part 11 then. So it's today._

_Brief mentions of torture._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Eleven

* * *

Twenty minutes later, John was seated in a visitor's chair in some hallway, staring at his bloodied right hand and trying to make sense of his thoughts while Lestrade was talking to him.

Bloodied right hand. Sherlock's blood. No, that… that wasn't right. Not Sherlock's. The other man's, Scotland Yard's murderer whom he had wanted to interrogate, to find out whether he was telling the truth, whether Sherlock had been telling the truth. Whether John's fury, although justified, had gone too far.

Had wanted to interrogate the man, but had ended up punching him, once, twice, three times until Lestrade had dragged him out of the cell, had punched him when he had started to describe how Sherlock had screamed when they had tormented him with electric shocks, how he had tried to struggle, weakly, very weakly, when they had pushed his head under water once more until he had run out of oxygen, how he had yelled and begged and pleaded for John once they had found out whom he was doing this for, pleaded for his _beloved army doctor_.

And in this moment, when he had imagined Sherlock bound and blindfolded and screaming in pain, screaming for him, and had looked at the other man's devilish eyes and his blood-soaked grin, he had known that this man was telling the truth.

That Sherlock had been telling the truth, or trying to do so, and he, John, had not believed his best friend.

He didn't exactly remember how he had ended up on the chair, with a cup of tea in his hands and his legs resting, elevated, on another chair, staring at his bloodied hand.

_Did it to… keep you safe… and Lestrade… and Mrs… Hudson… had snipers on you… threatened you…_

Sherlock's words, forced out between coughing and gasping.

Sherlock's words which John, in his fury and anger and utter _blindness_, had mistaken for the attempt to cover the true reason for his disappearance, to cover the fact that he had enjoyed the game with Moriarty, had mistaken for a lie in order to make him pity Sherlock.

The truth. It had been the truth all along.

John had been so stupid, hadn't even cared to look past his disappointment and shock and anger, hadn't paid attention to Sherlock at all.

Sherlock had apologised, all the time, sincerely, had begged John, had pleaded him to help him, had… had trusted in his only friend, and John had… John hadn't cared.

Had mocked Sherlock, had punched him, had insulted him. Had sent him away.

Had ignored his plea - plea, literally - for help.

"You should've heard him," the man, the murderer, had giggled. "How he screamed for you, like a child, lost, would scream for his mother… You never came, of course."

Dropping the mug he had been holding, John doubled over and threw up on the floor.

Very narrowly missing Lestrade's shoes, as he noticed distantly.

"He went to see you, yeah," he panted as soon as he was done, haphazardly wiping his mouth. "Do you have a CCTV recording?"

* * *

It took time, a lot of time until Greg had managed to find the correct recording.

Time John spent with dialling Sherlock's old number again and again, having been disconnected three years ago, of course, time he spent with pacing, biting his lip bloody.

Finally, Greg was done, presenting two short videos to John, one of Sherlock, in his worn hoodie and the jeans, walking up to Scotland Yard, the other one showing Sherlock on his way upstairs.

And only now, without the veil of rage and deception and self-righteousness, John could see what he should never have missed in the first instance.

Sherlock wasn't walking straight, was swaying from one side to the other, pausing, occasionally, to cough or draw breath or to steady himself against the wall, was staggering, but very slowly so.

Took ages until he had climbed the stairs, gripping the handrail as if it was a lifeline, coughing and hacking and trembling.

Trembling, the hoodie hanging loosely around his emaciated frame, illustrating his thinness rather than hiding it.

John blew out the breath he had been holding once Greg had pressed the stop button, and slammed his fist on the desk.

"John?" Greg enquired carefully.

John only saw the way Sherlock had slumped in front of his door, the way he had wheezed for breath, the way he had barely seemed to be able to keep himself on his feet.

Acting, John had assumed, had attempted to fool himself, wondering at the same time that he had never been aware that Sherlock was _that_ good.

He wasn't. No acting, not this time. Genuine, it had all been genuine.

And it made John want to vomit again.

"John, what's wrong?" Greg wanted to know, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"He's sick," John whispered. "He's sick, and I didn't notice. I'm supposed to be a doctor, Greg, I'm supposed to be his friend…"

Straightening, he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "Pneumonia, I'd say, at least."

Pneumonia. Untreated, probably, for a very long time. Malnutrition.

Suddenly, John remembered how easily he had been able to knock Sherlock down when he had punched him in the face.

And had then…

No.

"John, what's wrong? You're white as a sheet," Greg addressed him again.

John barely managed to steady himself against Greg's desk. "I've made a terrible mistake," he mumbled, recalling the look in Sherlock's eyes. Not acting, no. Terrified, lonely, hurting, scared. In need of a friend, of his only friend.

Greg cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He… you know, he hurt you. It… don't … it's normal that you're angry at him, we all are, for God's sake." He hesitated, his voice scratchy, appeared as if he had to force himself to continue. Trying to encourage John when there was no comfort. "He still lied to you, and disappeared for three years, and…"

"I know," John rasped, breathing shallowly. "I still want to punch him and shout at him and… But…"

But, there was a but, an important one. His head was spinning, and yet he could still think straight enough to remember. "He's my best friend, Greg," he mumbled, his throat raw. "Whatever he did, it doesn't matter… right now. Because he… he _needs_ us."

Greg nodded.

"We're his friends, aren't we?" he choked.

Greg nodded again. "Yes," he repeated. "I didn't think I'd say that once, but yes, we're his friends."

John closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath. "We need to find him, Greg," he whispered, doing everything to fight the dread that was threatening to overwhelm him.

Back, Sherlock had come back, as he had begged him to. Had come back. And John had… sent him away, punched him, told him to never come back, told him to "piss off". And Sherlock had, had disappeared, completely.

Hadn't gone to see Mrs Hudson, hadn't returned to Greg, wasn't well, seriously ill.

And John had the sudden feeling, locating itself somewhere directly in his heart, this absurd feeling he hadn't experienced in three years, since Sherlock had jumped, that, if they didn't hurry, they might as well be too late.

And this time, it would be his fault, entirely his fault, and definite. The end, forever.

"Greg, we need to find him!" he shouted, lurching forwards. "We need to find him…"

Find Sherlock.

Find him before it was too late.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. I'd really appreciate to get to know your thoughts._


	13. Twelve

_Thank you for your reviews and following and favouriting!_

_I am sorry for the delay._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Twelve

* * *

They needed to find him. Needed to find Sherlock. As quickly as possible.

John could not form another thought any longer.

Needed to find him. Find him. Find him. Before it was too late.

"But where could he have gone?" Greg muttered for at least the third time while John was pacing around in the room, his mobile pressed to his ear, once more having dialled Sherlock's old number. Waiting for a miracle.

"You call him," he commanded. "What if he's just not answering my calls?"

"John…," Greg began, probably intending to tell him that it was pointless, that the number had been disconnected, that Sherlock most likely had had a new phone for three years.

John _knew_, knew all of that.

But it was the only thing they had got to go on at the moment.

Only now Lestrade's question reached his addled brain. Where, where… Where could Sherlock possibly have gone?

There were a thousand places - or none.

Mrs Hudson's. 221B. Molly's. Mycroft's. Somewhere entirely else. Out of London, leaving forever.

No, Sherlock wouldn't. Wouldn't…

"John," Greg addressed him again. "It's no use. The number's been disconnected. We…"

John didn't listen anymore.

He didn't know, couldn't name what was worse. The uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing where Sherlock was, whether he was alright, the guilt and shame that were about to consume him or the horror that was drowning him as soon as he thought back to the murderer's words.

Three years. If all of this was true… then Sherlock had spent three years with dealing with Moriarty's "web", as the man had called it, with hunting people and killing them and…

To keep others safe. To keep him safe, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade.

And what had been John's way of thanking Sherlock?

Sending him away, harshly, telling him to never come back, punching him.

His thoughts were going around in circles, repeating themselves over and over again, but he couldn't do anything against it.

"Damn it!" he hissed and slammed his hands on Greg's desk. "There has to be something we can do! We can't just…"

Sit here and do nothing. Wait for Sherlock to turn up. Waste time.

"His brother's got people out there, looking," Greg reminded him.

Mycroft, yes, Sherlock's brother whom John hadn't seen since the funeral when he had thrown a fist into his face for betraying Sherlock to Moriarty.

For betraying Sherlock. How ironic.

They had called him, hoping, almost expecting that Mycroft miraculously knew where Sherlock had gone, had seen him, maybe, could help them.

After long moments of silence Mycroft had informed them, in a clipped tone, that yes, he was aware that his brother was alive, but that he had not seen him for months, had not heard of him lately - and although he himself did have resources at hand to search, it would take time, especially since Sherlock had always been rather adept at hiding from Mycroft.

Three more years, John assumed bitterly, had been long enough to improve Sherlock's ability to keep out of sight if necessary, to become invisible.

"That's not enough!" John yelled at top of his lungs, very close to just kicking at one of the chairs in Greg's office until it dissolved, until his anger vanished and a solution appeared. Pointless, too, he knew.

* * *

Five minutes, that was how long John succeeded in remaining calm.

They took another look at the CCTV recordings, and John's brain became fuzzy with all those details he suddenly registered.

Pneumonia, he assumed, rattling breaths, fever, most likely, malnutrition, general weakness, dizziness, swaying, dehydration, starvation even, maybe, possibly, likely, not much money left, on his own, left alone…

The list grew longer and longer, and the more facts John added inside of his head, the more restless he became.

Two days ago. These pictures showed a Sherlock from two days ago. One day ago, John had last seen him.

Two days ago.

Far too many things could have happened in between, and if Sherlock hadn't gone to see a doctor, if he hadn't consulted medical help…

He had intended to, John realised only now.

Help me, had been his words.

Help me.

And John had ignored him.

"You stay here," he ordered Lestrade. "Call me as soon as there are any news from Mycroft. Immediately."

Grabbing his jacket, his wallet and his mobile, he sprinted over to the door.

"Where are you going?" Greg shouted after him.

Where. He didn't even know. "Going to find Sherlock!" he yelled breathlessly and let the door fall shut.

* * *

Going to find him.

If it only were that easy.

John couldn't even put a finger on what was driving him, what told him that he had to be quick. Maybe because he knew Sherlock. Sherlock had wanted to come back, had returned to him and he… And now Sherlock was… alone, and sick, and feverish. And not taking proper care of himself, John could tell as much.

What if it was too late, what if he never found Sher-

No.

Not going to happen.

He had failed his best friend - because Sherlock still was his best friend, despite everything, despite what John had believed, despite what he himself had done - once, and he would not do so a second time.

"Hello," he addressed a woman sitting on the concrete, homeless. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Homeless network, he had figured out. If Sherlock was still in London, hiding somewhere - he had called Mrs Hudson once more, and Molly, even Sarah and Rose and Jeannette and all of his former girlfriends whose numbers he still had saved on his mobile and has asked, bluntly, if they'd seen him, receiving worry, shock and a "no" and ending the call in all cases - in the city, then those who were most likely to know, to have heard anything, were the members of Sherlock's homeless network. The former members - John had no idea what had happened to them during his… during the past three years.

And here he was, almost jogging through London, long after nightfall, trying to recall places Sherlock had met with them, beneath bridges, quite often, in dark corners of parks, in dark alleys.

Futile, so far.

He didn't even have a picture to show them while he was looking for a dead man.

This time, too, he only received another headshake.

And his time was running out.

Over there, an entire group of people, huddled into blankets, definitely homeless.

"Hey!" John shouted, his pace quickening. "Hey, you! No, stay here, please…"

Running, they started running, spreading into every direction, away from him. Blindly, grimly, John leapt after the one next to him.

"Hey you, stop!" he yelled after the figure, panting, forcing his shaking legs to comply.

And got the person, finally, seized the arm, whisked her - for a she it was, a young woman - around, not too softly.

"Wait!" he gasped. "Please! Just one question!"

He had never seen the face before, he was sure of that, no-one from Sherlock's investigations, no-one John knew.

"Ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" he croaked, feeling utterly stupid.

For a brief second, she stilled, then attempted to escape his iron grip.

"You're part of his homeless network, aren't you?" John's heart picked up on speed, his grip tightened almost subconsciously. There was something in her face, a spark of recognition, or maybe just another one of John's hopeful deceptions. Member of Sherlock's homeless network. She had to be, she simply had to.

"What do you want," she hissed between gritted teeth, her eyes glowing in the semi-dark.

I want Sherlock back, would have been the correct answer. Unlikely, after what John had done.

"I need to find Sherlock," he settled on instead, not even thinking about letting go of her arm.

"He's dead, and you know that!" she all but spat at him.

For a moment, every process of life seemed to cease inside of John.

For a moment, before he realised that she was talking about Bart's, about the… suicide, not about recently.

Clenching his teeth and squeezing her upper arm, making her hiss, he shook his head. "No, he isn't. Listen, I need to find him, now! It's… it's… important, please! Listen, I've got one hundred pounds with me, you can have that and whatever else you want if you just help me… please."

Help me. Please.

Sherlock's words, and John hadn't listened to him. Hadn't paid attention.

He didn't think he had ever regretted anything as much in his entire life. Not even the words "you machine" thrown at his best friend who was about to end his own life about an hour later.

Finally, she nodded.

John let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, feeling his head grow light all of a sudden. "Here…" He started fumbling around in his pocket, searching for the notes.

"I don't want your money," she told him, taking a step backwards. "Sherlock's in trouble?"

In trouble.

"Yeah," John agreed breathlessly. "Please, will you help me? Please."

She held his gaze. "Sherlock Holmes?" she then said. "You're a friend of his?"

John's hands clenched into tight fists inside of his pockets. "Yes," he croaked. "I need to find him, please! Tall, dark hair, pale, cough, feverish, probably, and…"

"Yes," she cut him off. "I'll see what we can do."

We. Sherlock's homeless network who somehow still remembered him, miraculously, after three years, who were willing to help John.

"Four hours. Back here. If you're late, I'll be gone."

Four hours. John's legs started trembling. "Thank you," he choked. "Four hours…"

Four hours. Better than infinite, but still so long.

"Could you… faster?" he wanted to know, clenching the keys to his flat he had suddenly found in his pocket.

His comment did not earn him anything except for a condescending look. "Four hours," she repeated.

"Please," John breathed, about to collapse to his knees in front of her. A gesture of pleading, maybe, or just utter weakness. "It's about… it's a matter of life or death."

She still simply stared at him. "Four hours," she told him for the third time. "If he's in London, I'll know by then. Don't be late."

Four hours. John certainly wouldn't be late. Not for this meeting, at least. For Sherlock… he simply didn't know.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_So, John's about to panic... and about to hurry, luckily!_


	14. Thirteen

_Thank you once more!_

_I hadn't even intended to post this chapter, although finished, yet, but somehow, I liked the idea of applying the time of John's wait to the update as well... (thanks to you, anagogia and Emeraldbuttercup!)_

_It's not exactly four hours later, rather twelve, and it's probably not the chapter all of you were looking forward to, but... here you go!_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Thirteen

* * *

James Moriarty was laughing at him. The devil's face was looming above Sherlock, grinning, an edge of madness in his eyes.

"Here we are again," he cheered, still laughing. "You and me, Sherlock. Just you and me. Nobody else."

Sherlock cringed and attempted to crawl away. Pointless, of course. Where was he? Was he still in Vienna, where Moriarty's two henchmen had lured him and had drugged him and dragged him off to a cellar, had tried to find out who was next on his list, who...

Or was it Marseille already, Marseille where he had got into a fight with another one, his opponent armed with a knife, Sherlock armed with... a sprained wrist and the rest of his velocity?

His side didn't hurt, so it wasn't Marseille when he had seen Moriarty while his body had been attempting to fight off the fever ravaging his transport, trying to fight off an inflammation approaching, from in infected knife wound.

Moriarty... He always appeared, had always whenever Sherlock had been weakened, had been doubting himself, had been...

"Where's your army doctor now?" the devil teased him. "Where is he now? Did he abandon you, defective as you are now, did he leave you behind, reject you..."

Abandon you.

"John...," Sherlock tried to mutter, causing him to cough and splutter and rendering him unable to breathe.

"Look at you." Moriarty grinned wolfishly at him. "Look at you, all helpless and alone and... pathetic. Oh, so pathetic, Sherlock. The great Sherlock Holmes, brought to his knees by..."

Before Sherlock realised what was happening, Moriarty's face disappeared and he was back in that cellar, tied to the wall, his entire body aching and trembling and seizing, his back throbbing from the few marks left there by their whip, his chest hurting from the strain of trying to breathe, and the men he had intended to take down teasing him, mocking him, telling him what they were going to do to John, or what they already had done to John, how they were going to...

Someone was screaming, hoarsely, screaming and...

With a sudden jerk, Sherlock's body jolted back to reality, his screaming ceased, the breath caught in throat and his lungs convulsed and revolted and...

He didn't see anything but stars for a few moments, stars and circles swirling in front of his eyes, turning into the face of James Moriarty, turning back into stars and circles, turning into John's face, torn and bleeding and battered and...

He started retching before he could process that what he saw wasn't real. Nothing he saw had ever been real, nothing... Hallucinations, all this time, fevered dreams, just...

Pain exploded in his rib cage as he inhaled, more pain blossomed as James Moriarty and John and Moriarty's two henchmen delivered a series of kicks to his abdomen and chest and ribs.

"John...," he slurred, sucking in breath, greedily, attempting to breathe.

It wasn't real, it wasn't...

Reality was slipping from his grasp, faster and faster, faded into an explosion of pain and cold and warmth and more pain, of John's face blurring in and out of focus.

"John," he whispered, not aware of what he was doing.

Coughed, coughed, coughed... couldn't stop, couldn't breathe, and no-one was there to... no-one...

More pain, in his head, his throat, something wet on his lips, wet...

Blood, blood, scarlet, not pink, not...

John wouldn't like it, John would scold him, but then, John wasn't here, John wouldn't come, John wasn't allowed to come because it was dangerous, because he had to remain safe, safe from Moriarty's minions, safe, safe, safe...

He couldn't breathe.

Nothing else mattered but John.

"Where's your army doctor now?" Moriarty's voice teased him again. "I don't see him, do you? You're alone, Sherlock, on your own and helpless. You're dying and nobody will ever..."

"Shut... up...," he breathed, rolling to his side, throwing up bile and blood. "Shut... u... p... you're not... real..."

"Of course I'm not real," Moriarty answered and laughed, like a maniac. "I'm dead, yes, and you're dying. Dying, Sherlock, all alone, and no-one will ever miss you or come for you because they don't care about you, because..."

"John... cares...," he whispered, licking his dry lips with his swollen tongue. "John..."

"Then where is he!" Moriarty shouted, exploded into bursting colours and blinded Sherlock.

Where... where... where was John. It wasn't right, John was supposed to be here. No, he wasn't, John had to be safe, had to...

Sherlock screamed as he saw the face of another man, of the one he had killed in Manchester, the one in Canterbury, the one in Berlin, in Prague, in Vienna, in Marseille, in Brussels, in the tiny little village near the French border, in...

All those faces, so many people, all...

The thought simply disappeared, leaving nothing but the certainty that he was dying.

Dying.

And John wouldn't come.

Sherlock began coughing once more, his hacking wrecking his entire body, his entire being, coughing and couldn't stop, started retching and couldn't stop although there was nothing left in him that could come up.

Nothing left, nothing at all. Empty, he was empty, hollow, vacant.

Consisted of blood, blood and vomit and excrements, nothing else.

Of course John didn't want him anymore, of course not, it...

He couldn't breathe.

* * *

It was still black when he surfaced again, slowly, his entire body hurting, a scream on his lips but never happening.

Dying.

Moriarty was gone, they were all gone, all those faces around him.

Alone, he was alone. Deserved to be alone, had hurt John, had...

"'m... sorry...," he croaked, feeling the blood burn on his cracked lips.

It was cold, so cold, everything was cold, without John, cold and dark and...

Sherlock didn't think he could take it anymore. Just wanted it to end. Wanted to forget, to know of nothing anymore.

How long since he had seen John? Days, hours... Time had lost all of its importance - if it had ever held some - as soon as he had stumbled here, collapsing in some corner, not moving anymore. Couldn't, even if he had wanted to.

His coughing... It hurt. It tore him apart, it ripped his lungs to pieces, it...

Gasping, gasping, he needed... breath, oxygen, John...

No, he didn't. Didn't need oxygen. Would keep him alive, and he didn't need to be alive now any longer, didn't need... had... had finished his task, had kept John safe, had...

Time. Time had been important, once. Three years.

Two years, ten months and ... five days. How many days?

Until he had been able to come back to John. Until...

The cold, the fever... his fever. He had a fever. His fever was killing him, and...

Coughing and heaving mixed again, and Sherlock's throat was on fire.

On fire...

I'm sorry, John, was the last coherent thought he assumed he would ever be able to produce.

He welcomed the darkness enveloping him.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Can I leave it like that? I probably can't, but I have to - still working on the next part._

_But... don't worry too much!_


	15. Fourteen

_I am truly sorry for the delay - I wasn't at home on New Year's Day, so everything took a bit longer this time._

_I wanted to thank all of you who have reviewed, favourited or followed - it means a lot._

_And - although it's a bit late - Happy New Year to you all._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Fourteen

* * *

It turned out to be the longest four hours of John Watson's entire life.

He felt like simply crumbling to the concrete right where he was standing, collapsing into a heap of clothes, and crying, simply crying, never wanting to get up again - but he didn't. Because Sherlock needed him, now, needed him to find him, and this time, he wouldn't let his friend down.

He shouldn't have done so in the first instance, but he had been stupid, so stupid, too blind to see, and now it was too late to change anything.

But not too late for Sherlock.

Hopefully.

He didn't call Greg, or Mycroft, didn't even attempt dialling Sherlock's old number again. Instead, he kept walking, kept trying to talk with more homeless people, asking passers-by whether they had seen a man, dark hair, ill-fitting suit, pale, apparently ill, whether anybody had seen Sherlock, anywhere.

Without any success.

The streets had emptied long ago, now, in the middle of the night, cars occasionally still passing by.

The stars were looming above John, almost like a threat, telling him: We know where he is, we know, we can see, but you don't.

Stars. Sherlock and stars.

…_that doesn't mean I can't appreciate it._

John came very close to throwing up again. If he didn't manage to find Sherlock… If he wasn't in London anymore…

He could be anywhere, God knew where, could already be dead, could have died already, of pneumonia, on his own, rejected by John, by his only, by his best friend whom he had tried to keep safe for three years, not paying attention to his own safety and well-being.

On his own.

That was, maybe, despite everything, the worst part.

John knew how it felt to be alone, had felt it for three years, had tried to distract himself with various girlfriends during that time.

And he could tell that Sherlock also knew, that he had been alone for a great part of his life, before John, and after… after his staged suicide. And was alone, again, having been… having been left by the man who was supposed to be his friend.

* * *

John was sure there were tears in his eyes by the time he came stumbling back to where he had met the young woman. She arrived only minutes later, handing him a tiny little piece of paper. And ignoring the tears on his face.

A piece of paper. A location, hopefully, unreadable scribbling to his blurring sight.

"Thank you," he breathed, his fingers trembling so badly that he hardly managed to unwrap the paper.

"That's the best we can do," she told him, quietly, and then added, even more quietly: "Good luck."

John didn't realise that she left, vanished into some shadows while he was still fiddling with the paper, his breathing come in short, fast gasps, the tips of his fingers entirely numb.

Sherlock. He needed to get to Sherlock.

A location not too far from his flat, a few streets away, the same…

John's heart missed a beat. To know that maybe Sherlock had been that close all the time, that he… Oh God. He hadn't got far, had collapsed, had…

"Wait," he shouted after the woman, pointlessly. "How shall I…"

How was he supposed to find Sherlock? Was he… outside, inside, somewhere…

At least he had something to go on now.

John ran.

* * *

It took him ages to hail a cab, far too long for John's liking.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

He had, apparently, lost the ability to form another coherent thought. The paper the young woman had given him clenched securely in his closed fist, John leaned forwards, the fingers of his other hand trembling against the backseat of the cab.

"Can't you go any faster?" he snapped at the cabbie.

Should he call Greg, call Mycroft, anyone, to tell them that maybe he was onto something? Four eyes saw more than two, and if Mycroft sent a few of his people…

"No, I can't," the driver replied while John attempted to dial Greg's number with his shaking hands. "Ever heard of speed limits?"

He didn't pay attention to the cabbie as Lestrade accepted the call. "Greg," John practically yelled into his phone. "Croydon, somewhere, maybe. Call Mycroft, tell him to start looking there, to…"

"John," Greg's voice answered. "Where are you?"

"On my way," John replied curtly and ended the call, his grip around his phone tightening subconsciously.

God, if he had started looking for Sherlock earlier, if he had…

"What are you on about, mate? You looking for someone?" the cabbie interrupted his thoughts.

John bit down on his lip, not bothering with an answer. He flinched when the cabbie stopped at a red traffic light. "Drive!" John urged him.

"Are you on the run or something?" the man asked him, even turning his head and giving John a suspicious glare.

For a moment, John regretted not having taken his gun with him - a gun as the final measure to threaten any cabbie into driving faster.

"Just drive!" John demanded, seriously considering the possibility of climbing to the vacant seat in the front for a moment. God, wasn't there anything he could do to speed things up a bit? Except for getting out, trying to find another cab, to… Anything, anything at all he could say. "It's a matter of life or death," he blurted out. "So please…"

"Are you police or something?" the cabbie wanted to know, the traffic light finally switching to green.

"Yes, yes!" John agreed breathlessly, fastening his fingers around the piece of paper in his fist. "Left there! And hurry!"

Luckily enough, after another surprised look, with John still looming almost threateningly behind the driver's seat, the man did as he was told.

* * *

John didn't take the time to draw in a deep breath as soon as he basically fell out of the cab.

Where, where, where… How should he find Sherlock, how…

By looking, yes, but how, and how quickly?

Shoving his phone into his pocket while he was walking, John attempted to sort his thoughts, attempted to think like Sherlock. Where would Sherlock go, where nobody would find him…

"Alright," he croaked, narrowed his eyes and made for a smaller alley.

* * *

His search, John realised quickly, was pure chaos. He hurried from one street to another, checked in courtyards, the nearest tube station, even contemplated smashing a window in a seemingly abandoned shop, heedless, panicked, doing his best to force himself to think and take deeps breaths.

His mind didn't shut up, shouting at him, blaming him for whatever might have happened to Sherlock, for whatever he might have done to him, yelling at him that it was his fault, everything, that he was the one guilty.

His heart kept thumping in his throat, preventing him from breathing properly, as if to remind him that he owed Sherlock, that Sherlock's time might be running out.

His feet were stomping on the concrete, loud in the quiet night, his breathing sounded noisy and hollow in his ears.

And John didn't even know where exactly he was, where he was supposed to be going next, didn't have the faintest idea. Had lost track of time and direction long ago, only still remembered: He needed to find Sherlock, as quickly as possible, he needed to see him, apologise, tell him how sorry he was, that...

Greg was nowhere to be seen, nor help sent by Mycroft, nor any other people. Nor Sherlock.

Sherlock.

He had tried shouting, of course, yelling his friend's name through the silence and the dark of the night, without ever receiving a reply, just once a complaint by an apparently irritated neighbour.

Swearing under his breath, John almost stumbled over the legs of a person sitting propped up against a street lamp.

"Eh!" the man grumbled, slurring the one syllable.

Drunk, or high, or worse. And most definitely not Sherlock.

"Sorry," John mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock could be anywhere, absolutely anywhere, and he…

"'s all right, mate," the man assured him merrily. "'s not where I normally sleep…"

Okay, John told himself. Calm. Phone. No missed calls. No news from Greg. Nothing.

"Bein' homeless isn' exactly nice," the man went on, undisturbed by John's lack of attention. "Diffi… cult to find the right… hiding place."

John clenched his teeth and squared his shoulders. Needed to concentrate. Well then. He had checked the street that was behind him, thoroughly, he assumed. And the one behind that, and…

Hiding place.

Within a second, John had crouched down in front of the man, not caring about the foul smell he was emitting.

"Hey!" the man protested as John seized his collar. "Whataya… Oh, never mind. Knew I shouldn' stay here, but there was this guy where I normally sleep…"

All of a sudden, John's heart froze in his chest, and whatever he had intended to say initially just faded away. "Guy?" he croaked.

The man simply blinked at him. "Yeah," he finally replied after John had taken to shaking him not too softly. "Just round the corner o'er there, in the courtyard where I always sleep…"

Round the corner. "What did he look like?" John urged, not letting go of the collar.

"Dunno," the man muttered almost unintellegibly. "'twas dark… sleepin'…"

His heart performing a sudden leap, John released the man and swept to his feet. Round the corner. Just round the corner.

Hopefully.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think._

_John's panicking a bit, isn't he? Next chapter is what you're waiting for, I promise._


	16. Fifteen

_Thank you for still reading!_

_Once more, apologies for the delay - Series 3 just... overwhelmed me._

_The length of this chapter rather got a bit out of hand - when I went over it again, it just grew and grew. But since I'm more content with that version than with the original one, I decided to leave it like that._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Fifteen

* * *

Round the corner.

John kept holding his breath as he ventured forwards, on his own, only in the company of the cone of the street lamp behind him.

Courtyard, the man had said, courtyard.

His eyes took their time to get adjusted to the dim light that barely illuminated the other street, barely lit the back of the building and the courtyard.

Dark, it was dark here, and he didn't even have a torch with him, anything to see where he was walking.

"Sherlock," he whispered, aware of the uselessness, aware that Sherlock would never hear him.

Hiding place. Sleeping.

John's heart missed a beat as he remembered the other man's words. Sleeping, or worse.

And it gave another funny lurch when he realised why Sherlock was here, probably, why he had chosen a place to hide in.

Because no-one would come looking for him here, because no-one who cared would find him here, and because he probably wouldn't leave again.

An image suddenly appeared in his mind, an image of people, dead bodies, Sherlock, people who had died, unnoticed, uncared for.

Sherlock was not going to be one of them, not this time.

"Sherlock," he repeated, hoping, against all odds, for a reply, for his friend's deep voice, for his condescending tone, for a cough, for anything.

Moaning was all he got, moaning that came from a figure lying on the side, breathing raggedly, moaning and groaning and...

Moaning in a high voice, with long hair, as far as John could see with narrowed eyes, smallish, slender. Female.

John shuddered. Despite himself, he went closer, slowly, took in the vague features of a young woman, half his age, maybe, barely more than a girl, in the claws of a drug overdose, lying a few metres away from the bins queued up neatly near the back of the building.

Help her, his instincts screamed at him, help her, call an ambulance, do something...

If he helped her now, it would cost him time, time he maybe didn't have, time Sherlock didn't have.

John closed his eyes and slowly walked on.

"Sherlock," he whispered again, trying to make out the figure of his best friend, the dark hair, the ill-fitting suit, the...

Bins. Containers.

Where else could one hide better than behind bins, in between bins and a solid brick wall in a dark and dreary and not frequented courtyard?

* * *

Floating, he was… floating in the dark, in the cold, in the…

Floating, defying gravity, boneless, weightless, helpless, and… without effort.

Just so… so easy, so relaxing, so…

He didn't think, didn't have to think for once, felt nothing but calm and heaviness and yet weightlessness, nothing but tiredness, exhaustion, but being allowed to rest, to forget about everything, to simply fade…

Just… floating.

* * *

Bins.

John's heart stuttered in his chest as he lurched forwards, towards the bins, towards the wall.

Nothing, at first, just empty space, concrete, and…

A hand was all that John could see next, one pale hand, but it was enough.

A hand belonging to an arm, resting in an impossibly twisted position on the concrete, buried beneath a body, motionless, still.

"Sherlock…," he whispered, frozen all of a sudden, slowly falling to his knees next to Sherlock's back, his legs hidden behind the next bin.

Reaching out a shaking hand towards his friend's slumped shoulder, carefully touching him, afraid, maybe, afraid that Sherlock was going to disappear again, vanish into nothingness if John brushed the dark fabric of his suit.

Listening to his strained, rasping, heavy breathing for one, two, five, ten seconds before finally finding the courage to pull, to slowly turn Sherlock onto his back, sagging limply.

His face deathly white, even in the darkness, smeared with dark, with red, with blood, illuminating his utter lifelessness, his motionlessness.

Lifeless. Motionless. Limp.

Breathing strainedly, shallowly, flatly.

Blood-stained, colourless, lifeless lips. Closed eyes. Skin stretched far too tightly over the bones.

Puddles of vomit next to him, stains on his suit jacket.

Unconscious.

"No," John choked, almost keeling over in his haste to grab both of Sherlock's shoulders, to drag him away from there, away from the sick, the bins, the waste, from the bile mixed with blood.

The rattling coughing emerging from Sherlock's body made him flinch, its ceasing caused him to drop his friend's shoulders, to scramble around, frantically, panting in his haste to feel for a pulse, for anything besides the hacking that told him that he wasn't too late, that there was still hope, that...

A pulse. He did find one, erratic, much too fast, beating almost out of control, merely fluttering, not beating steadily.

Dark, it was still so dark, so difficult to see, to…

"Sherlock," he whispered again, cupping the slack cheek with one hand.

Hot, his skin was far too hot, and not sweaty at all, dry, hot and dry.

Dehydration, fever, high fever, John's brain provided him with.

Sherlock's heavy head simply lolled from one side to the other, bonelessly, gracelessly, like a rag doll.

Unconscious, not responding, coughing, coughing up blood, fever, dehydration, vomiting, tachycardia, lying in some courtyard, for at least one day, without medical attention, without anyone…

Bile rose up in John's throat, threatening to spill before he could swallow the urge to throw up.

"Sherlock," he repeated, his voice cracking, tried slapping the hot face once more. Flinched at the sound of more coughing. "Sherlock, wake up."

John held his breath, only to receive no response.

His brain was exploding, suddenly, overflowing with all the things he should have told Sherlock when his friend had come back, when John had seen him for the first time, or at least when he had seen him for the second time, all the things he wanted to say now, wanted to tell Sherlock, things he regretted.

Wanted to tell Sherlock how sorry he was, how blind he had been, how furious, wanted to tell him that he hadn't thought about what Sherlock might have gone through, hadn't spared a second to overcome his own anger, his rage. Wanted to tell him that he would never, absolutely never, forgive himself if it was too late now, if Sherlock…

He couldn't. Couldn't produce a single sound.

All he could do was to stare at this body, damaged, broken, ravaged by fever and illness, emaciated, appearing more dead than alive.

Stare at it and force himself to remember that this was Sherlock, _Sherlock_, his best friend, and that… that this was _his _fault, essentially, and that he should do something, _anything_.

Staring into Sherlock's pallid face and at his blueish tinged lips, listening to his wheezing, the superficial intakes of breath, John panicked. "Please," he croaked, bending over the white face. "Open your eyes."

No reaction, only silence.

John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's temple, almost feverishly. "Please," he muttered. "Sherlock, please. Wake up."

Sherlock simply coughed, the sound rattling in his chest, bubbling in his throat, blood speckling his lips.

Doctor, he was a doctor. Needed to do something, something…

Tears were dropping to Sherlock's skin, John's hot tears, while he kept tracing his one thumb over his friend's still face, his other hand trembling madly as he fumbled for his mobile, intending to call an ambulance.

* * *

There was shouting around him, shouting, replacing the blessed silence from earlier. Shouting… his captors, shouting at him, threatening him, wanting to make him comply…

But no. No… The words didn't… didn't fit, it wasn't…

"…ambulance…," he could make out, and: "…quickly!"

Ambulance… Had they gone too far, had they? Was he…

Why would he need an ambulance…

It didn't make sense, nothing did.

Someone grabbed his shoulders, grabbed him tightly, pulled him up. Drowning, again, the thought shot through his hazy brain, shoving his head under water, to…

"No, you're not!" a voice growled, dangerously, demanding. "You're not giving up now!"

A voice he knew, knew well, and suddenly he felt something soft on his face, softer than anything he had ever experienced, another touch somewhere on his cheek, gentle, almost caressing.

His body cramped when he tried to inhale and failed to suck in enough oxygen. Drowning then, wasn't it? But there wasn't any water, only cold and…

The grip around him tightened, froze, fingers dug into his shoulders, something pressed itself against his forehead, the stroking didn't cease.

"Don't give up now, don't," the voice repeated, close to his ear. Chin, a chin against his forehead. "Please. Sherlock, just hang on, a little bit longer…"

Sherlock. They had never used his name before, hadn't known it, he had used an alias, to keep them safe, hadn't told his enemies anything.

Sherlock.

And they wouldn't cradle him close, not even if he was dying.

The arms around him shook when he groaned, fought to open his eyes, to see, to understand.

A face was swimming in front of his eyes, his vision blurring, a face he knew… and hadn't believed to see again.

"Sherlock," someone murmured thickly, the noise reverberating in his head, narrowing his airway. Someone, his face close to Sherlock's, his hands…

His heart spiralled.

"John," he wanted to say, wanted to croak, his lungs not complying. John, why John, why here, with him? "You… here."

For a moment, the blackness around him returned.

"No!" John's voice shouted, shouted almost… anxiously, if that had been possible, if he hadn't hurt and betrayed and disappointed John. "No, keep looking at me, and keep breathing! Please, Sherlock…"

It couldn't be. John couldn't be here, couldn't be where he was. Hallucination, it had to be another hallucination. An image, conjured by his addled brain, by his longing and his craving.

"Am I… dead," he breathed, the suspicious tickling in his throat, doing his best to never let John out of eyesight. If he kept looking at him, didn't gaze away, then maybe, maybe, he could convince himself that this was real. "'cause-"

The tickling turned into coughing before he could utter what had been on his mind; John shook him, his arms shook, no, were trembling around him, clenched him.

For a split-second, Sherlock allowed himself to hope that this was real. That John was here.

"It's alright," John slurred. "Alright, I'm here, I won't… You're not dead, you're safe, alright, and…"

Hallucinations had never held him before.

Didn't matter, didn't. He couldn't breathe, couldn't relax, everything tensed in him, cramped, convulsed.

"You were… in… my dreams…," he forced himself to say, trying to hold his breath. "Good… dr… dreams…"

So cold, it was so cold. His very blood seemed frozen, or maybe boiling, sluggishly making its way through his body, not reaching his brain, not reaching his heart.

"You're not dreaming, Sherlock," John muttered, moving back and forth.

He was tired, so tired… If John was here, with him, and so were his enemies, then…

"No!" he gasped, breathlessly, torn apart by his coughing. Needed to get away, John needed to leave, to be safe… "John…"

"Ssh," John made, the earth shaking around Sherlock. "It's okay, don't worry…"

Worry. Had to worry, always, because caring, because…

The thought slipped from his brain as the world around him grew darker.

"…dead…," he wheezed, choking.

"No, you're not!" John's voice again, out of the distance, only barely reaching him. "And you're not going to die any time soon, you hear me? I'm not letting you, not when…"

Anger, anger in his voice. Again. Had made John angry. Had…

The feeling of a palm on his face, a strong presence, firm, comforting. No oxygen.

"Not when I've just got you back and been too stupid to realise how…"

Got you back.

Sherlock's eyes closed and his left hand cramped into his chest as he gave in, stopped trying to suck in air. "John," someone rasped, before the darkness swirled away, replaced by nothing.

There were voices, later, John's voice, yelling at him.

Yelling…

"…be fine… 'm here now… 's okay…"

Other voices, distant, fading.

"Fever…"

"…sepsis…"

"…intuba…"

Something attempting to suffocate him, someone trying to shove a funnel down his throat, pour water inside, make him swallow, only to kick him later until he vomited again.

He struggled, failed his heavy limbs, thrashed and tossed, attempted to get free, to get away.

John's voice again, cutting through everything around him. "…-lock… please… down… Sher- … calm… help you…"

They had John, had John, had John. He needed to get away, get free. Hands on his arms, holding him, hands on his face, pressing against his forehead, his jaw, something on his arm, sticking, needle, drugs, being drugged…

"Sherl… alr… here… kay…"

John's voice again, blurring, fading, thinning.

A quick impression of light above him, faces he didn't know, a hand tightly gripping his.

Everything becoming duller, more sluggish, slowing down until…

* * *

_Thank you for reading. It would be very kind of you to leave some feedback._


	17. Sixteen

_Thank you for your wonderful support!_

_Ready for a bit more angst?_

_Here you go!_

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Sixteen

* * *

John had, as a doctor, spent many hours, many long and terrifying hours, in hospitals.

The hours he sat in a hard plastic chair this night, until the early morning, were certainly, without any comparison, the worst. Of all.

Not only because he didn't know anything about Sherlock's condition, but because he was also aware of the fact that, should Sherlock die now, in this night, in this very hospital, he would, selfish as it might seem, never have the chance to apologise to his - still - best friend. Would never have the chance to at least try to put things right again, never have the chance to tell Sherlock that he had never been more wrong in his entire life, and that he had never regretted anything more bitterly than sending Sherlock away. Twice.

And, most of all, because he couldn't get rid of the images haunting him. How he had found Sherlock, lying behind that bin, unresponsive, feverish, dehydrated.

How light his friend had felt, far too light, when John had heaved him up, determined not to let him go this time, how he had felt his spine and ribs when he had pressed Sherlock close, how his hot forehead had rested against John's throat, his heavy head on John's shoulder.

How he had choked and coughed and rasped and retched, how John had felt him tense for a second, tense and press the back of his head against John's shoulder.

For a second, before he had gone completely limp against John, his coughing ceasing, and John had started fumbling frantically for his neck and the carotid artery, only to still feel a soft fluttering, soft and rapid and…

How he had whimpered, not even semi-conscious, and muttered under his breath, and how John had attempted to soothe him, to calm him, mumbling nonsense himself, trying to apologise although Sherlock hadn't been able to hear him.

And then, even worse, how Sherlock had struggled and thrashed and seized inside of the ambulance after paramedics had finally arrived, making the very necessary intubation impossible, until one of the paramedics had sedated him, knocked him out and pushed the tube down his throat.

John didn't know what had been worse - seeing Sherlock tossing and kicking, terrified and panicking, but at least _moving_, or watching him lie completely still, dead-like, not even breathing on his own anymore. Or maybe witnessing his body jolt, once, twice, thrice with defibrillation as his heart had decided, some time during the ride, to cease working properly, had elapsed into mere uncontrolled quivering, not qualified to keep its owner alive.

And now he was here, sitting and waiting, waiting for good news or… for the end.

* * *

When a doctor, all ominous and mysterious and almighty in his white coat, approached him, determinedly, John got to his feet, braced himself, prepared for the worst, for a considerate: "I'm sorry, but we couldn't save him." Or a: "I'm sorry, but he didn't make it."

What he got to hear, however, wasn't what he had expected, and it needed a few moments to actually reach his brain. "He's… he's alive?" he finally stammered, stumbling backwards.

The doctor nodded. "Currently, yes. He's being taken to a room as we speak, and you can see him once he's stable, if you'd like. To," he cleared his throat. "To say goodbye…"

"Yes," John croaked and attempted to keep breathing. Hesitated, then added: "Can I just… just see him for a moment, just… from outside?"

* * *

Pneumonia, infection in Sherlock's lungs which had, due to the lack of treatment and the state of his immune system and his body in general, developed into a full-blown sepsis, resulting in a state bordering on septic shock when John had found him.

Combined with malnutrition, dehydration, exhaustion, a broken nose - courtesy of John - and a dangerously high fever it appeared to be a cocktail of medical conditions which might as well kill Sherlock.

Which would kill him, if the doctor's expression was anything to go by.

John stood outside of the hospital room, his hands clenched into tight fists, watching his friend's prone body from afar, and didn't dare to draw breath.

Why was he standing here, breathing, and Sherlock needed a machine to do that? What would have happened if he had seen right away, if he had never sent his friend away, if…?

It didn't do any good to wonder about this now, and yet John couldn't help it.

He had been too late. Too late.

From the very moment on when Sherlock had coded inside of the ambulance, John just sitting nearby, shocked, unable to help his friend, he had known that this was not likely to end well.

Sherlock was too weak, and his ailments too grave, and John doubted that he still had… still had the will to live. That he wanted to live.

Say goodbye, the doctor had suggested.

Now that he was here, outside of this room, staring at Sherlock, with wires and tubes and cables, John wondered how he could have ever been so stupid not to realise something very important.

The most important thing he could think of right now.

The most important thing at all.

"I need you," he whispered, almost pressing his face against the door separating him from Sherlock. "I bloody need you, you idiot."

* * *

Greg found him in another plastic chair about an hour later, his head resting against the wall, staring off into the distance. Another plastic chair, closer to the corridor to ICU, closer to Sherlock.

"Is he...," Greg muttered, taking a seat next to John.

John dazedly shook his head. "Not yet," he whispered.

"Then...," Greg cleared his throat. "Why're you here and not… not with him?"

Holding his breath, John squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not stable yet," he whispered, burying his head in his hands. "It's my fault, Greg, and I can just sit here and… Oh God."

Lestrade shut up after that.

* * *

"I…," Greg began again, not five minutes later, clearing his throat twice. "I called Mrs Hudson and told her that… that Sherlock's alive and…

John closed his eyes. Alive. Still. Mrs Hudson.

Another few minutes passed, minutes of silence next to Greg, disrupted only by their quiet breathing and by the sound of people passing by, of feet passing by, busy, working, caring.

Caring.

It was close morning already, morning.

"You know that…," Lestrade coughed awkwardly. "That his brother's probably gonna show up here? He knew, after all, that Sherlock had been…"

John slammed his fist against the wall and stopped listening.

"...he'll recover, John," was the next thing he heard.

It made him sick. "Nobody expects him to live through the next day," he whispered. "There's nothing they can do for him."

Nothing.

Nothing.

Greg's shocked face.

Nothing.

The look in Sherlock's eyes when John had hit him. The look in his eyes when John had told him off for the second time. The look in his eyes yesterday.

Clenching his trembling left hand into a tight fist, John swallowed dryly.

* * *

"Do you…," Greg croaked, another while later. "What's… what's wrong with him?"

Pneumonia and septicaemia, John informed him hoarsely, and somehow felt the need to relativise his words from earlier: "There's nothing they can do for him if his fever keeps rising."

It didn't, of course, do anything to reassure Greg. Maybe simply because there was no such thing as reassurance to be offered.

"And," Greg rasped, "he's been… I mean, we didn't… see. Jesus, John…"

They didn't see, yes. Didn't want to see. John didn't. And now Sherlock was going to pay the price.

Both of them flinched when a third voice appeared, suddenly, disrupting John's thoughts. "Mr Watson." A doctor's voice. "If you'd like to see…"

Exchanging a quick glance with Greg, choking a brief "I'm sorry", John nodded and got up.

* * *

It felt odd, so odd, to sit next to his friend's hospital bed, his friend whom he had believed dead not even a week ago and who was now, ironically, although he had returned, far closer to death than to life.

He sat there, tense and rigid, listened to the sharp noise of the mechanical ventilator and the too fast beeping of the heart monitor, his hands curled into his scrubs, and didn't know what to do. His throat had narrowed far too much to start talking, and he wouldn't have known what to say either. I'm sorry, again? Now, when Sherlock couldn't even hear him, unconscious, with a dozen different types of medication coursing through his bloodstream?

Talk about something else, pretend that nothing had happened between them, that it wasn't basically John's fault that Sherlock was here now, on the verge of death?

No. Not a possibility either.

He didn't leave again, no. But there wasn't really anything he could do.

He didn't mean to stay either, not really, assumed he had no right to. He shouldn't be here. Sherlock was - would have been - better off without him.

Violently, he jumped when a nurse entered, giving him a gentle smile.

"I... I was about to leave," he croaked and almost knocked over the chair in his haste.

Quickly and professionally, she exchanged the bag with the IV solution. "I won't be long," she explained, her back towards him, facing the monitors. "It's good that he's got someone with him."

John froze. "I don't think I'm the right one," he whispered, not taking his eyes from Sherlock's face. Pale, ashen, slack, sunken.

This time, she turned around to look at him, her smile slowly being replaced by a slight frown. "You're his friend," she stated.

John swallowed dryly. "Yes," he breathed.

"And you love him," she went on.

_And you love him._

Unconditionally, as best friends should, no matter what happened.

John blinked rapidly. "Yes," he answered even more quietly.

No matter what happened.

He had needed a criminal to open his eyes, a criminal talking about his friend to open his eyes, to overcome his rage and understand that Sherlock had needed him. Now, too late, he had understood that, no matter what Sherlock had done, what John had felt initially, they would find a way out of this.

Would have, if Sherlock hadn't been about to die.

The nurse's smile reappeared. "Then I don't see a problem here."

I can't! John wanted to scream, can't, can't, can't... I told him to leave, to never come back, I betrayed him, I failed him, I wasn't there for him when he needed me most! "I... I don't think he'd want me with him," was what he settled on.

She chuckled softly, inspecting the urine bag and the drain appearing from under the covers, the drain from the two chest tubes, relieving both of Sherlock's lungs of the fluids that had accumulated there. "I think," she began carefully, "you should let him decide when he's lucid."

John could simply stare at her, unable to say anything, unable to form a coherent thought. "But he won't," he finally rasped, clinging to the chair.

Almost as if she was caressing him, she ran her hand over Sherlock's forehead. "You don't know that," she corrected him. "The presence of a loved one can often work wonders. You want him to have a chance, don't you?"

John's knees were trembling and his vision was blurring. "Yeah," he managed hoarsely after a moment. "Yes, of course."

Her frown lines softened as she nodded. "Then show him you're there for him."

Show him you're...

John closed his burning eyes and sank back to his chair.

* * *

Around noon, not even ten hours after John had found Sherlock, he got to know that now, finally, his kidneys were failing, too, ceasing their work as his lungs had, just giving up.

John slumped in his chair, blinking heavily to keep his tears at bay. Not long now, everything in him told him.

Not long now.

If there had been anything he could do, if only…

The nurse had been wrong, it wasn't right that he was here now, he shouldn't… Maybe if he left, if he gave Sherlock the peace and rest he deserved, maybe then he would start fighting this infection, try to overcome it, try to…

It was little more than a reflex that John's fingers suddenly curled around Sherlock's. They tightened around Sherlock's hot and dry hand, mindful of the IV, and didn't let go.

* * *

John's back was stiff and sore and tense from his sitting in this crouched position for such a long time, but he didn't move, simply stayed where he was, bending over Sherlock, biting his lips, his hand still gripping Sherlock's, and hoped, hoped with all his might, for a second miracle after he had rejected the first one.

"How… how long does he have?" he addressed the nurse croakily who entered in the evening to turn Sherlock on his side and to exchange the bag with the IV solution. Again.

"I don't know," she murmured, almost gently keeping a hold of Sherlock's shoulder. "This morning, I'd have said, a few hours. But now… He's still alive." She smiled, already at the door again. "It's good you're here."

John squeezed his eyes shut after this and firmly rubbed his thumb across Sherlock's hand.

* * *

Sherlock didn't die this night.

John didn't leave this night, nor did he pay attention to the silhouettes howering outside of the room. Greg, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft.

The nurse's words were echoing in his head, repeating themselves over and over again, preventing him from closing his eyes and nodding off, preventing him from letting go of Sherlock's hand.

Then show him you're there for him.

Show him you're there for him...

He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Not now, not again.

In the darkest hours of the night, when Sherlock's fever spiked, his blood pressure dropped even more, when his heart seemed about to falter, John licked his lips and started talking, about anything, about his job, about the three years, about Rose whom he didn't even intend to call again, about how stupid he had been, how he wished, longed that he had reacted differently, about...

He talked about whatever came to his mind, did his best to sound encouraging, positive, to sound hopeful, although his voice kept breaking and the tears that wouldn't stop welling up now and then continued choking his words, but he didn't stop. Talked to drown out the other noises, the noises of the life support system, the noises in his head still blaming him for what he had done, for what had happened.

In the morning, despite all odds, despite all predictions, despite his still awful vitals, Sherlock was still alive.

And John didn't even consider the thought of leaving again.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._

_I apologise for the length - I had intended to split it in halves, at first, but then couldn't find a point to stop._

_Secondly: Luckily enough, there was a caring nurse to remind John that the worst he could do right now would be to leave._


	18. Seventeen

_Unfortunately, the wait for the third episode of Series 3 seemed to have drained all creativity out of me... which came back, fortunately enough, as soon as I had watched His Last Vow. So here you are, finally, after a rather long delay for which I apologise._

_Then I wanted to address something else: I will finish this story, for those of you who were worried - I'm not going to stop somewhere close to the ending even if it might take me a bit longer to update._

_That said - enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Seventeen

* * *

Light erupted out of the dark, out of the blackness, all of a sudden, light inviting him, luring him, welcoming him. Light with the promise of ending all suffering, of ending the unbearable pain in his chest and his throat.

The darkness was loud, noisy, a shrill, long, beeping sound disrupting the peaceful silence of the light, peaceful…

A final jolt of pain crashed through his body, hot, electrical pain, trying to force him back into the darkness, back into the world of horror and hurt and damage.

What for?

What would it all be for?

There was nobody back there for him, nobody welcoming him.

He was going to choose the light, for once.

If only it hadn't been for a voice yelling, in utter panic, at him, yelling at him to not do that, to hold on, to…

John's voice, begging him.

The light was fading, slowly, the soreness being his body becoming more present once more.

Begging him. John's voice.

John had been whom he had longed for for three years. John, simply John.

He went back to John.

* * *

Two days.

Two days.

And one night.

Exactly thirty-nine hours.

Thirty-nine hours.

That was how long Sherlock kept hanging on. Barely so, buying time, living on stolen time, not really alive, but… with a chance to recover. To pull through. With a heart still beating, though close to faltering, and blood still streaming and oxygen still coursing, even if only due to a mechanical ventilator.

Two days of kidneys not working, of dialysis, lungs not functioning, blood pressure beyond dreadful, of temperature sky-rocketing.

Two days.

Within those two days, Sherlock had surfaced to consciousness exactly three times.

Three times his eyes had opened, glassy, unfocused, blood-shot, staring into the distance, without even noticing John.

The first time his lashes quivered softly against his now sweaty cheeks, it almost gave John a heart attack, sending a jolt of fear through him, fear of how Sherlock might react to seeing _him _of all people here, him who had ignored him and sent him away when he had needed him most. Softly his eyelids had fluttered, and barely perceptibly, at least for somebody who had not spent the past hours with watching every single movement of Sherlock's face, every single - mostly non-existent - twitch of one of his limbs.

John, his heart in his throat, had simply continued his talking, his voice breaking, and Sherlock didn't seem to oppose, didn't seem to be aware of John's presence, lost consciousness once more, simply remaining as still and hot and barely alive as before.

Conscious.

It sounded so great, didn't it? Conscious. Alert. Awake.

But Sherlock hadn't been. An involuntary reflex, probably, simple eye-opening, nothing meaningful. Because Sherlock hadn't been alert, far from it, in fact, too deeply in the claws of the fever, probably hadn't even noticed what was going on around him.

In retrospect, the first time when Sherlock's eyes had flickered open was probably the most encouraging one. He had panicked, the other two times, his eyes unseeing, but wide, his body tensing, about to choke on the tube in his throat - until, of course, he had slumped back, after only a few seconds, back into his state of exhaustion and fever and sepsis and nothingness.

"It's okay," the nurse, the one John had talked to earlier, attempted to reassure him over the course of the hours. "The antibiotics are about to kick in, and they'll soon…"

About to kick in, because they hadn't done so yet, not really, because there was not a trace of improvement yet.

Improvement. Deterioration, rather.

"Stable" had become an euphemism sometime during the past days, no longer a term appropriate to describe Sherlock's condition accurately.

Nobody ever talked to John about medical conditions, about medication that was necessary, about platelet counts, about electrolyte abnormalities, about failing metabolism, about a prognosis, but he could see it, in the nurse's face, in her weakening smile.

And could see it, of course, when he looked at Sherlock. At his papery skin, the beads of sweat, the slackness of his muscles, the red and feverish speckles in his face, his entire body shivering because of the ice pads, a desperate measure to bring down his temperature.

His hand in John's had long lost its dry heat, was sweat-drenched by now, as were his hair and the hospital gown, his body trying to fight off the various infections and instead only weakening itself even more.

On the brink of death, on the brink of multiple organ failure, on the brink of never coming back to John again.

On the brink, or beyond.

There had been, once, some indefinite amount of time ago, another episode of ventricular fibrillation, Sherlock's heart going into overdrive, and only after four - four! - sickening jolts of his best friend's lifeless shoulders, the rest of his body still, so utterly still, the doctor attending to him had been able to coerce his heart into beating close to normally, close to regularly, not only contracting uncontrolledly.

Next time, John was fully aware of, they might not be so lucky.

Now and then John had been seeing faces outside, Mycroft, again, Greg, of course, poor old Mrs Hudson, even Molly. He didn't bother to get up and talk to them, maybe because there wasn't anything to say. Because he couldn't lose Sherlock, not for a second time, not like this, not because of his own bloody fault.

Vaguely, distantly, he remembered arguing with Mycroft when he once had been sent out of the room, shouting insults and accusations, everything in order to cover up his own guilt, even punching the man. Punching him, only… to be yelled at by Mrs Hudson, trembling and sobbing, chastising both of them, slapping both of them, saying something along the lines of… "Shut up, now, both of you! He needs you!"

Had needed John, days ago. Too late, too late, probably.

"He's still hanging on," the nurse reminded him whenever she entered, basically surrounding Sherlock with ice pads, anything, additional to antipyretics, to battle his raging fever.

John had simply rubbed his free hand over his eyes to extinguish the tears welling up, the tears that were not appropriate because he. Was. Responsible.

Responsible.

He hadn't allowed himself to think too much during those hours that had passed. Had forced himself to believe that maybe, with a lot of luck and a lot of will to survive Sherlock wasn't going to give up now. Had definitely not dared to think what was going to happen if… if Sherlock was _not _going to pull through. What this would mean for him. For all the other people who cared about Sherlock. For his sanity.

Hadn't allowed himself to dwell on his guilt, not really. Had talked and talked and talked, talked his voice away, his terror banned to the very back of his head.

And now…

John flinched when the heart monitor suddenly gave a sequence of quickening beeps, followed by a short pause, only seconds, and then by further irregular noises. Irregular. Failing.

Thirty-nine hours. Nearing forty, now.

The count of hours was about to match the temperature of Sherlock's body.

It was night, night once again. Night…

John's throat narrowed as he watched Sherlock's limbs convulse in the bed, on his own, shivering, sweating, feverish, and it hurt, it hurt to sit there, clasp Sherlock's hand and let him tremble on his own, unable, not allowed to cradle him into his arms and warm him up. John knew, of course, that his body wasn't cold, that his _fever _was about to kill him, but the unreasonable desire did not disappear.

Unreasonable. Sentiment. Words Sherlock might have used, once. Once, before he had died, and had come back, and had been rejected, and…

John's fault. Fault, fault, fault…

If Mycroft had known, had known all along that Sherlock had never died, if he cared, then… John was to be removed, he assumed. Would disappear, because of his guilt, would be eliminated.

For the best, probably.

John startled again when the door opened, letting in the nurse - Mary, as her name tag read.

Quickly, efficiently, she checked all the tubes, the IV, immersed herself in the readings of heart rate and blood pressure and temperature for a few moments.

John closed his eyes, solely concentrating on the boiling hand in his.

"The blood samples from this afternoon," her voice suddenly filled the room.

John braced himself, not looking at Sherlock. Simply couldn't.

Deterioration. Cardiovascular collapse. Septic shock. Again. Heart failure. Whatever.

"They show improvement," she went on. "Not much, but the inflammation parameters have gone down a bit. The antibiotics are starting to take effect."

John held his breath, held Sherlock's hand as a ray of hope fluttered to life in his chest. Then he remembered what she had said. A bit. Not much, a bit. Too late. Still, probably.

_And you love him._

Mary's words, spoken days ago, suddenly ghosted through his brain.

_And you love him._

"Is there…," he began, and cut himself off, not knowing what he had intended to say. Hope? A chance? A good chance?

"It's good you're with him," she simply said.

* * *

Sherlock was hearing John's voice.

John's voice.

It wasn't possible.

John's voice.

It was cold, cold in him.

"…shivering," John's voice was saying. "…can't stand … shiver, and…"

Another voice, answering. "…need… fever down… necessary…"

"Don't give… erl…"

John.

* * *

John's voice. It couldn't be possible, it couldn't… how? How could it be possible?

"…left lung's co…"

"…please… don't…"

John.

"…drain… fluid…"

"…kidneys still not…"

"…fever… sep…"

"Sherlock…"

John's voice once more.

It didn't make sense, he didn't understand.

How could John be here? Whereever here was.

"It's okay…," John told him.

It was, probably.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_I couldn't resist, could I?_


	19. Eighteen

_A huge thank you to all of you who reviewed or followed or favourited._

_Mention of torture-inflicted injuries._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Eighteen

* * *

Greg Lestrade dropped the case files he had been looking through when his phone rang.

"We'll talk later," he told Donovan who had just been about to explain something about a detail somebody had missed in that case they had been investigating. Or maybe about a suspect they had caught. Or something like that.

"But…," she began, nonetheless getting up from her chair immediately.

"No," Greg insisted, eyes locked on his mobile. "Not now. Out. Go. Later."

She knew, of course, as well as he did who was calling him.

He lunged for his mobile in the very second when the door had closed behind Donovan. There was enough gossiping going round already, and absolutely no bloody need to spread any more rumours. "Yeah?" he croaked, suddenly craving for a cigarette. Or two, or three.

"Greg," a tired voice greeted him.

For a moment, Greg's heart sank. He might not be the world's only Consulting Detective, but he was a policeman, bound to notice things and to observe, and he was by far not stupid.

And when John Watson called him these days, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, from a phone that wasn't his mobile, then there were hardly good news.

Nothing but silence was what he received from the other end of the line. Silence.

Running his hand through his hair, Greg desperately fought the urge to smash his mobile against the wall for a moment. Successfully, in the end - it was the mug of coffee that took the blow.

"John?" he enquired, not for the first time wishing himself far away, or wishing nothing of that had ever happened.

Damn it. Damn the mug. Damn everything.

"John!" he demanded, getting up from his chair to collect the shards of the mug. "What's wrong!"

He still remembered the call John had given him almost a week ago, in the middle of the night they had spent with searching for Sherlock, a call with a John Watson sounding barely coherent, the only thing Lestrade had been able to grasp from his manic muttering being: He had found Sherlock. And they were on their way to hospital.

Sherlock. _His _Consulting Detective, that was, Greg assumed, how he had always thought of the annoying dick. Thought, yes, but had not showed him when he had come back from the dead.

John had almost given him a heart attack when he had rushed to that bloody hospital, only to hear that, well, there was nothing to be done for Sherlock. Then John had disappeared, into Sherlock's room, and it had been left to him, of course, to explain everything to Mrs Hudson, the sobbing landlady, and to endure the cold and yet livid stare of Mycroft Holmes (whose tie had been in complete disarray, as Greg had noticed).

"Bugger," he swore under his breath as he almost cut off his fingertip on one of the shards. Why had he shattered the damn thing in the first place? And why was he picking up the pieces now? "Damn it!"

John chose exactly that moment to start talking. "He's woken, Greg." Even on the phone Lestrade noticed that his voice was trembling. "I mean, he was conscious, and immediately started to panic. Ripped out one of the chest tubes, almost gave me and himself a heart attack, and… They sedated him, and they're now taking care of the tube, and … It's the second time he panicked like that, Greg, and I don't know…"

John's voice, forcedly composed and even… sort of casual, couldn't convince Greg for one second that John wasn't close to a panic attack himself.

What had John said? Ripped out what?

Greg didn't know too much about Sherlock's condition because John didn't call him too often, none of the nurses were going to talk to him and he wasn't allowed to enter Sherlock's hospital room while John was in there - only one person at a time. Everything he knew was that everybody, including John, had expected Sherlock to die, but he hadn't, not yet, and even seemed to be improving. A bit, probably.

"I'm sorry I called you," John suddenly muttered, almost slurring his words.

"No, it's…," Greg began to reply. It was what? Good? Nice? Appropriate? None of that, he supposed. "Listen, John…," he ventured carefully, well aware that, if they were talking face to face, there would be a high likelyhood of John punching him for his suggestion. "Maybe you should go home for a bit. Eat something. Sleep. Come back tomorrow."

John didn't even swear. "I can't," he choked. "I can't abandon him again."

Greg swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Right," he muttered.

Both of them added a bit of small talk, not enough to make them too uncomfortable, and then John ended the call, on his way back to Sherlock.

Greg simply sat on the floor, surrounded by the shards of the mug, for a few minutes, staring at his phone. And couldn't believe what had happened.

He flinched and hit his head on the shelf above him when a careful knock resounded and Sally Donovan stepped into the room. "Any news?" she asked quietly, closing the door.

They all knew, of course. Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead, back from three years of hunting criminals. They had seen the guy that had spilled, too. Back from the dead, and now in hospital, quite possibly dying. What a story.

"No," Greg simply answered, heaved himself to his feet, regardless of the shards, and shuffled towards his desk. "Where were we?"

Evening couldn't come fast enough. The opportunity to smoke a few cigarettes, grab a sandwich or something else to eat and then drive to hospital, to spend a few hours in uncomfortable plastic chairs in a corridor, staring at John and Sherlock from outside, both looking like death warmed over.

Brilliant day, then. As brilliant as the one before, and that one before that, and…

Greg sighed and, after a final glance at his now silent mobile, attempted to concentrate on what Donovan was telling him.

* * *

He was sporting a beard, he realised belatedly, numbly. Beard. Stubble accumulating over seven days.

There was nobody, he mused, who would shave him, in contrast to Sherlock. Not a patient, just a… visitor. And he himself didn't have the energy to do so

Greg was sitting outside once more, staring at him and the limp form in the bed with narrowed eyes and deep lines embedded into his skin, worrying, obviously.

Obviously.

Sherlock didn't mock him for this thought, didn't tease him or raise his eyebrow, simply remained… unmoving.

He had woken again, today, got the merest grasp on consciousness, and had panicked, almost immediately. Panicked and thrashed and sent his heart rate spiking, as he had done twice before, until he either lost said consciousness again, or somebody rushed in to sedate their obstinate patient.

Obstinate. If only.

Delirious, rather. Feverish, still. No longer septic, thanks to the antibiotics which had finally done their job, and thanks to an unknown god who had provided this miracle. Sick, yes, very sick, but not… not dying.

Each time he saw the terror and pain in Sherlock's eyes, it made John want to vomit, made him sick. Because his behaviour told even more tales about what had happened to him during his three-year absence than the words of a criminal. Choking on a breathing tube, trying to get rid of it? Throttling, suffocating, water-boarding.

John wasn't sure he wanted to know what else.

And then the way his struggles became, despite his apparent weakness, his fragility, even more desperate as soon as arms were holding him down, as soon as someone approached with a needle to inject sedation, to prevent him from ripping out any tubes again. Being tied down, being held down. Being immobilised, probably.

Then the scars, of course. Not too many, but… appalling. Shocking. Telling even more. Thin ones on his back - whip marks, John had realised with absolute clarity. Burn marks, too. Others, impossible to conclude their origin by just catching a brief glance at them. His right knee, patella splintered, everything torn. Ribs, broken, too, several times, some of them, the breaks still visible in the x-rays that had been taken where they had healed incorrectly. Broken nose, John's fault.

John's fault.

He didn't know if his presence was an advantage, or if it aggravated Sherlock further, upset him. If it was because of him that Sherlock tried to scream, couldn't because of the ventilator, or because of him when a short expression of relief flooded Sherlock's features mere moments before some drug cocktail sent him into oblivion again.

He didn't think he wanted to know, for now. Because he was well aware which version was the more plausible one, and he… he simply didn't want to know.

Sherlock's fingers twitched in his grip, a frown formed on his forehead, and he weakly moved his head.

"Ssh," John muttered, as he had done so many times before. "It's okay, Sherlock, okay…"

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, quivered, his eyes opened a sliver.

John gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock's eyes closed again.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._


	20. Nineteen

_I won't be home until Monday, which means neither access to a computer nor to the internet. Therefore, another chapter yet._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Nineteen

* * *

Sherlock was hearing John's voice. Again.

John's voice.

It wasn't possible. John could not be here, could not be where he was. John shouldn't even be where he was, because it meant… it meant that John was in danger, that John wasn't safe anymore.

Keeping John safe, that was what mattered, what was important. The only thing.

John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

"It's okay," John's voice said, softly, so incredibly softly. "It's okay, it was just a dream, you're safe."

A dream. He wished it had been, but he knew it wasn't, it was real, had always been real. He couldn't breathe, there was something on his chest, pain, maybe they were suffocating him, again, choking him, again, trying to get him to talk, and it hurt, and it was cold, and he couldn't breathe, and...

John's voice.

They had John, did they have John?

He needed to make sure, to open his eyes, to see if John was alright, because he couldn't force out a single sound, because he couldn't, and...

It hurt, and it was terrifying, and John was here, alright, and...

There was light that blinded him, light seeping into his closed eyes, and a face and...

John. It was John's face, pale and...

With a sudden jolt, his eyes opened fully, and he stared into John's face.

John. Pale, dark circles around his eyes, lines in his face, too many lines, stubble everywhere, not taking care of himself, thin lips, thin, not eating, his eyes dark, pain in his eyes, an insecure smile tugging at his lips, a pained smile, worry...

What had happened to him, had Moriarty got him, what had his henchmen done to him, why was he...

"Hey," John's face, looming above his eyes, whispered softly, the smile trembling. "It's okay, Sherlock, okay..."

Okay.

Sherlock's eyes began to darken, his vision blurring, the pain in his throat and in his chest, his chest, too, unbearable.

Hurt, hurt, and...

Reality was slipping away once more.

* * *

John.

John's face.

Everywhere, around him, above him.

John's voice, around him, saying his name, talking.

John.

But it couldn't be. It was John, wasn't it?

But no, no. Couldn't. Couldn't be.

* * *

It was a hallucination, it had to be.

He had often hallucinated John, he remembered hazily, often during dark and lonely days, and even darker nights, had tried to picture his face, his voice, the smell of the tea he made, the smell of 221B, of home.

Why shouldn't he do so now?

There had been Moriarty, his dark and threatening eyes staring at Sherlock, seeing right through him, in these hallucinations, Moriarty mocking him and teasing him and laughing at him for what had become of him.

A murderer, a torturer, a criminal. A broken man, defective and damaged.

Hallucinations of Moriarty hurting John had always been the worst. John dead, shot, injured, bleeding, accusing Sherlock of failing him.

John alone, Moriarty alone, both together, other faces, people he had killed, people that had wanted to kill him.

It couldn't be real, John's voice surrounding him, floating around him, or John's face appearing in his vision, a insecure smile tugging at his tense lips, the lines around his eyes deep and grim.

"Hey," not real John murmured ever so often, everything in his face trembling. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

This was new, he had to admit, his hallucinations normally didn't ask him questions like that. Teasing, in Moriarty's case, questions for tea and cases and apologising to Mrs Hudson in John's.

"Hey," the hallucination softly told him a few times. "Don't worry, you'll be okay."

And: "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry, I... I've been so stupid, and I..."

John's voice sounded so peculiar, so odd, that Sherlock wondered for a brief moment if maybe, just maybe, he wasn't dreaming at all, if maybe it was all real, if maybe John was real.

The thought caused his heart to miss a beat and his head to swim, and prompted the hallucination to gasp in shock, the brow furrowing, the voice panicking. "Sherlock, what's wrong, what..."

Hallucinations, just hallucinations.

John couldn't be real, he never was. Hadn't been real for three years.

And yet, the face didn't disappear. Never.

And it comforted Sherlock. It took the pain away. It made the terror go away, the fear.

He didn't see Moriarty's face again, not in a long time.

Only John, even if it was just an illusion.

But it kept the devil away, and it was there, and that was, in this moment, enough.

* * *

He grew accustomed to seeing John's face whenever he opened his eyes. Even employed the thought that maybe, maybe, inexplicably, John wasn't a hallucination, John was real, John was here, with him.

Once more, he couldn't make a single noise, couldn't even tell John that he wasn't real, that he was just an illusion, not real...

"It's okay," the hallucination tried to shush him. "Okay. I'm here, you're... you're okay."

Sherlock's hand cramped as he tried to suck in air and couldn't. Cramped and touched... skin. Living skin.

Skin.

Skin. His hallucinated John had never had skin before, so...

"Sherlock?"

He needed to look, needed to make sure, needed to check.

Sluggishly, slowly, his eyes obeyed. John's lips were trembling, he realised despite his blurring sight. And squeezing his fingers.

Hallucinations didn't have hands. No matter what he had claimed, Moriarty had never been able to hurt him, not physically. Not...

Skin. Sherlock's finger shivered against the skin again, and felt a grip being tightened in return.

"It's okay," John whispered. "I'm here, I'm here with you, you're safe..."

Safe. Here. With him.

The voice disappeared, faded away, as Sherlock began to believe that maybe, somehow, inexplicably, this John wasn't an illusion, was real, somehow, maybe.

Real.

John.

Back to John.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. Couldn't, and...

The voice disappeared, but the touch didn't, the grip on his hand. John's grip.

Somehow, inexplicably.

* * *

John's face was always there, still, always the first thing Sherlock saw, the first thing he started looking for.

There, with him, somewhere.

The beeping of a heart monitor, the smell of hospital.

With him, somewhere, in a hospital.

John's face was becoming clearer, so he... better, he was better, then, he realised slowly, was recovering, had been... ill.

Hospital. John here.

Seriously ill, then.

The ceiling was dim above him, dim and not too clear, so it was... night, evening, not bright. Not bright.

"You're okay," John whispered, real John, not a John born from his imagination.

Sherlock knew now, knew for sure, now that his vision was clearer, that everything seemed brighter, that his head wasn't as fuzzy. His imagined John had always... been a bad copy, a cheap copy, without the warmth in the eyes that John's always carried, without the characteristic lines around his eyes, the wrinkles, without John's scent, without his touch.

Real. Real.

Sherlock's head became even lighter as John kept mumbling to him, soothing words, calming words, comforting ones.

* * *

"You were ill," John whispered to him the next time he opened his eyes, stroking his hand. "So ill that nobody believed..."

Sherlock tried to say something, make a noise, to tell John that it was fine, it was okay as long as John was here, but everything he achieved was that his chest hurt, and his throat hurt, and...

"No, don't," John told him softly, resting a cool hand on his hot face, tracing his fingers softly over his skin. "Just stay calm, Sherlock, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock acquiesced, closing his tired eyes.

"You can't talk," John quietly explained to him, not ceasing. "You've got a tube in your throat, you know?"

He was hot, Sherlock suddenly found, so hot...

"Your lungs weren't working, you have pneumonia and did nothing about it, you great git," John went on, Sherlock leaning into his voice and his touch. He wanted to chuckle at John's words, but remembered in time, before he could upset John again, that he couldn't. "But you're doing better now, Sherlock, much better, and..."

John, he wanted to say, wanted to thank him for being here, for not leaving him alone, for staying with him, but he couldn't. Couldn't utter a single sound.

"You'll be rid of the tube in few days, alright? Just..." John's voice broke. "Just don't do anything stupid now, alright?"

Collecting all of his strength, Sherlock attempted a nod, attempted to communicate with John, a tiny bit at least.

John's grasp on his hand tightened protectively.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	21. Twenty

_Apologies for the delay. Real life got in the way. Anyway, not much further to go now._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Twenty

* * *

Sherlock was extubated two days later, having been weaned of mechanical ventilation for the past few days, not strictly-speaking asleep, but rather semiconscious.

People were suddenly flooding the room, so many people, surrounding John and Sherlock, still clinging to John's hand, as always in his fevered haze, like an anchor, and John himself unwilling to let go and take a step aside to let the doctors do their work.

John's heart had been light over the past few days, so very light when Sherlock's resistant fever had fallen further, when his kidneys had started working again, finally, when his vitals had improved, when he had been awake more frequently, close to lucid, and apparently not minding John's presence. Not yet, probably.

He didn't leave the room, in the end, was watching Sherlock, who was paler than a living being was supposed to be, who still had a central venous catheter, a urine catheter, a feeding tube, two chest tubes sticking out of his body, grotesquely embedded into his skin, stretching far too tightly over his bones, was witnessing the endotracheal tube being pulled out of his throat, was witnessing Sherlock launching into a coughing fit almost immediately, terrible noises that made John's hand around Sherlock's tighten, witnessed the coughing ceasing, an oxygen mask being put to his face, and told himself, over and over again, that Sherlock would live.

That he would, somehow, almost inexplicably, survive this, survive a sepsis and pneumonia and being rejected by his best friend at the same time, in his weakened state, that the chest x-rays had shown clear signs of improvement, that Sherlock was able to breathe again, and cough, and on the way to recovery.

He had been given his second miracle, and was determined not to waste it again. That was, at least, if he still deserved it.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were huge and bright and glazed over when he finally woke again, slowly, very slowly.

"Don't try to talk," John warned him, not avoiding Sherlock's gaze, staring directly at him. "Not yet."

Sherlock only kept breathing.

"How do you feel?" John wanted to know, softly. "Do you need anything? Just nod or shake your head."

His head moved a tiny bit on the pillow, weakly, very weakly.

"Is that a no?" John mumbled quietly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock's fingers twitched reaffirmingly, his eyes closing slowly.

Now or never, John decided within a split-second and drew a deep breath. "If you… if you want me to leave, I can…," he whispered, securely clenching Sherlock's warm hand, begging, hoping, desperately not to receive the response he deserved.

Sherlock's shadowed eyes fluttered open again, his heart rate spiking a tiny bit, and John began to loosen his grip, with careful movements, mindful of the IV once more.

Sherlock's fingers kept twitching as John's hand disappeared from his, maybe wanting to tell him to leave, to leave him in peace; John attempted a brave smile. "It's okay," he whispered, swallowing his pain. His fault, his own fault. "I guess I'll keep checking on you for a bit, but I won't stay here if you don't want me to…"

The gurgling noise eliciting itself from Sherlock's throat made him flinch, and hesitate, and caused hope to flutter in his chest.

Sherlock's fingers continued their twitching.

Slowly, carefully, John rested his hand back over Sherlock's, and with more strength than he had assumed Sherlock to have, his friend's bony fingers tightened around his hand.

Sherlock choked again, trying to talk, unable due to days of not using his voice, due to pneumonia.

"It's okay," John murmured, wiping one tear away with his other hand. "Do you… would you like me to stay?"

Sherlock's fingers trembled against John's hand.

"Is that a yes?" John breathed, his heart about to explode in his chest.

Trembling, quivering, once more.

John could practically see the effort it took Sherlock to focus on him, could see his irides become glazed over and empty, and… his eyes closing, but…

He didn't leave.

* * *

They didn't talk about anything.

John doubted that Sherlock's throat felt like talking, even if he wanted to; they didn't anyways.

Whenever Sherlock woke, blinked his heavy eyelids open, his eyes started searching for John, his breathing accelerated until his gaze could lock on John, who was always squeezing his hand, and John found as much comfort in this shared look as did Sherlock.

And it was enough, for the moment, enough for John to know that Sherlock was still alive, and apparently enough for Sherlock, too.

They would have to talk about many things, eventually, difficult topics, failure, betrayal, rejection, lies. Serious things, serious enough for John's guilt to still almost suffocate him, but…

Not yet.

Not now, when all Sherlock needed to do was to recover, to gain strength and weight, and all John wanted to do was to be at his friend's side.

"Jo... hn," was one of the first things Sherlock succeeded in breathing, incredibly hoarsely, cringing in pain. "Why... here?"

John swallowed dryly and concentrated on the warm hand in his. "You were very ill, Sherlock," he finally settled on. "Nobody knew if…"

He couldn't. Couldn't say it. And didn't think that now was the time to burden Sherlock with his own guilt and with his apologies. "You jumped from a bloody roof top for me," he muttered instead.

"You're… here," Sherlock replied, launching into coughing as soon as he tried to take a too deep breath, his entire body cramping, the muscles and sinews in his neck very visible as he was struggling for air.

"Ssh," was all John could whisper, wondering suddenly how Sherlock had managed to survive that long without medical help, how his terrifying wheezing had been able to provide him with enough oxygen.

Sherlock slumped once he was finished, sweaty and exhausted, still wheezing flatly.

"…got a… job and… girlfriend," he, of course, attempted to croak once he had at least halfway caught his breath. "Shouldn't you…"

A girlfriend. Not anymore, he assumed. Not after he hadn't replied to any of her texts, answered not even a single one of her calls, hadn't contacted her in what felt like ages. Not anymore. And a job… neither, probably. Not after he had not shown up there in said ages, either.

"Ssh," John simply repeated, shaking his head. "We'll talk about that later, not now."

Grimacing, groaning, Sherlock raised his head, pressing his eyes shut, holding his breath. "John… 'm s'ry, shouldn't have…"

John didn't even flinch anymore when Sherlock broke into another coughing fit, gasping for breath, his face drained of all colour. He was crushing Sherlock's fingers, probably, with his death-like grip, but how was he supposed to relax, to remain calm, when his best friend was close to choking right next to him, and he couldn't do a single thing?

"It was just a job," he finally said, doing his best to avoid looking at the tear that had escaped Sherlock's closed eye, a tear of pain and stress and tension. His throat was impossible tight as he swallowed, raw and burning in contrast to his heart, frozen. "I can get another one."

Without letting go of Sherlock's right hand, he very carefully ran his thumb over Sherlock's nose, wiping away the single tear. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, but didn't open.

"It's okay," John told him. "Don't talk, okay? Try to sleep."

This time, Sherlock didn't protest, didn't even twitch.

"I can get another one," John whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't know if Sherlock was aware of what he hadn't said, what he had meant to say, what he had had in mind. "I can't get another you," he added, even more quietly, quietly enough that Sherlock wouldn't hear him, even if he was still somehow clinging to wakefulness.

He didn't receive an answer, of course not, hadn't intended to get one. And didn't let go of Sherlock, either.

John simply stayed where he was, not thinking, not talking, not even apologising.

Not yet.

* * *

John couldn't stop himself from watching Sherlock.

Breathe, almost unassistedly, not thanks to the tube in his throat, coughing, bringing up the mucus from his lungs by himself, requiring nobody any longer to suction his airway.

Couldn't help but watch, reminiscing all the time what he had done.

He didn't even know if Sherlock remembered. Properly, that was. If he did, then it was going to be easy. He would send John away, had to send him away as soon as he could form more than one word at a time.

If he didn't, then John would have to explain. And would send himself away, eventually, now that he was sure that Sherlock wasn't going to die, that he would live.

Closing his eyes and swallowing dryly, John attempted to concentrate on the warm hand in his.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	22. Twenty-One

_My astonishment concerning the positive response to this story is beyond measure. Really, thank you all.  
_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**We Keep Falling**

Twenty-One

* * *

After a while, once breathing was easier and less demanding, Sherlock started to wonder _why _John was here.

John, his John.

Turning his pulsating head a bit was nearly more than he could bear, causing his vision to swim and him to yelp involuntarily.

His entire chest and abdomen and his entire body ached as he sucked in a sharp breath. No, didn't ache, exploded.

When the blurriness disappeared from his eyes once more and the pain ebbed away, a tiny bit, he could see John's face again.

John's face.

It wasn't a hallucination, he had come to this realisation a while ago, John was here, in a hospital, sitting next to him. Had been for a while, probably, somehow, going by the stubble on his face and the lines and the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

But he remembered.

How he had gone to see John, how he had offended John, what John had told him, that he shouldn't come back, that... remembered how he hadn't understood, how he hadn't known what he had done wrong, how he had never, never ever, intended to hurt John.

And yet here he was, still alive, and John was there, too.

He didn't understand, didn't. Couldn't grasp why John was here, after what Sherlock had done, why...

"How… long," was what he finally whispered, startling John, his throat throbbing with soreness.

John almost immediately grabbed a glass from the bedside table, a glass with a straw, and offered it to Sherlock, removed the oxygen mask from his face. Sherlock remembered, hazily, when John had tried to give him something to drink with a spout cup, pouring the liquid into his throat, and…

The red-haired man, the funnel, water…

Straw. Better that way, John had decided, apparently. Slowly, Sherlock took a few sips, swallowed. Attempted to swallow, and ended up gasping for breath, the pain blooming once more.

"Ssh," John simply murmured, putting the mask back to his face. Before his expression, suddenly, became serious and grave and… sad. "Two weeks," he told Sherlock. Biting his lips. Insecurity. John was insecure, John… why? "You… you were very ill," he went on, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. "Pneumonia, sepsis, dehydration, malnutrition… They thought you weren't… you weren't going to make it."

Weren't going to… Sherlock groaned as he tried to shift a tiny bit. "Sepsis," he croaked, holding his breath in order to stifle a coughing fit. It worked. Almost.

John nodded slowly. "Yes," he replied calmly. "The infection in your lungs spread because you didn't go to see a doctor for the pneumonia."

See a doctor… What for should he? He had John, hadn't he? Had had John, he corrected himself. "I came to… you," he slurred the first words he could think of.

And realised that it had been the wrong thing to say when John's face hardened and his eyes became dark, very dark, instead of their usual comforting blue. Blue. John's eyes.

The wrong thing.

He didn't have the chance to apologise, didn't have enough time to catch his breath in order to say something else, to take his words back before John swallowed visibly, averting his gaze from Sherlock's face.

"I know," he made, barely more than a dry whisper.

No, that wasn't right, it wasn't… "Jo…," Sherlock began, ignoring the sting in his chest. A small headshake was all it took to cut him off, to make him hold his breath.

John closed his eyes, the lines in his face deepening. "I didn't want to talk about it while you were…," his voice broke. "But I think… it's not right to avoid it any longer now." He took a deep breath and Sherlock felt his fingers and his grip tremble, ever so slightly. "I know I shouldn't be here," John began, hoarsely.

Sherlock wanted to interrupt, despite the stinging, growing and intensifying, but another fit of hacking coughing left him breathless, and speechless.

"Ssh, it's okay, I know," John went on, not looking at Sherlock. "I don't have any right to be here, but I couldn't just leave you when you needed… someone. Not me, but someone." A small smile tugged at his lips.

Someone…

Sherlock's head was swirling from everything John was saying, swirling too much for him to understand.

Finally, John looked at him, sternly, solemnly. "I made a terrible mistake, Sherlock," he croaked, "and I will never forgive myself for what I did when you came back."

"It's not…," Sherlock began, his throat burning and his lungs protesting.

John slowly shook his head as Sherlock kept coughing. "I know I can't take it back, and I… I know that I can't ask you to forgive me, _and_ I know that there's no excuse for what I've done, I just wanted to tell you that… I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." John inhaled shakily at the same time as Sherlock did, a gasping intake of air, with the difference that Sherlock's chest still felt as if someone was sitting on it, squeezing down, crushing him.

"After what… 've done… to you…," Sherlock hacked painfully, trying to sit up, John's hands on his shoulders keeping him down easily.

"It shouldn't have mattered what you did, Sherlock," John reminded him softly, blinking heavily. Tears, tears in his eyes. "I'm your friend, it shouldn't have mattered to me, not as soon as I saw that you needed my help."

Sherlock saw stars dancing in front of his eyes. Friends… still?

"I wish it had never happened," John whispered, "and I'm... I'm glad you're back, really, and that you... that you didn't give up now, despite what I did."

"'s okay," he wheezed, his free hand cramping into his shirt, desperate to end the pain, get out the words he intended to say.

"No, Sherlock, no," John mouthed very carefully. "No, don't say that."

Cursing his aching throat, Sherlock attempted to take more shallow breaths, tried to breathe in a way which wouldn't trigger another coughing fit.

"I don't want you to rush things," John went on, his smile quivering in his face, blinking rapidly. "I am aware of what I have done, and I…," his voice broke. "I know there's nothing I can ever do that will ever make up for my words and my actions, for my failure."

"John…," Sherlock wanted to say, not able to produce more than a dry croak.

John had been there, with him, had kept Moriarty away, it was more than enough, so much more, Sherlock wanted to yell, but he couldn't.

He needed John, he did, but if John had another life now, had…

John's voice cracked audibly. "I couldn't leave you, I just couldn't when I didn't know whether you were going to survive or whether…" He drew a deep breath, still smiling at Sherlock. A forced smile, Sherlock could see. "I exploited your weakness while you were feverish and unconscious and sick, and I… I'm just bloody relieved that you didn't give up now, but… I think you need time, to think about what I did to you, to find out whether you'd still want me around…" Once more, John's voice failed him, and Sherlock's heart lurched, displayed as an irregular lurch on the heart monitor.

"…course," he wanted to croak, the pure intake of breath hurting him and prompting him to start coughing again.

John had pushed him upright a tiny bit, he realised as soon as he could breathe once more, staring at him with a worried expression.

Worried. How Sherlock had missed this, had missed John, during those three years. Had missed him, stupidly enough, had let sentiment rule him.

"I know what you're going to say," John continued softly. "'Of course', wasn't it?"

Sherlock only managed to inhale sharply as an answer.

John's smile flickered, but didn't break. His eyes, however, lost their brightness. "Thank you for that, Sherlock," he mumbled. "I would take back what I did if I could, but I… I don't want you to make your decision when you're still feverish and half delirious. No, don't try to interrupt me."

Sherlock obeyed, trying to concentrate on the fresh air he was supposed to breathe in.

"I don't want you to feel obliged to me, or anything like that," John told him quietly, slowly loosening his grip on Sherlock's hand. "What I did wasn't just… I could have killed you, Sherlock, I almost did." John's bitter chuckle that followed made Sherlock flinch. "God, if I can't even forgive myself for that, how can I expect you to?"

"John…," Sherlock rasped, holding his breath, pressing his eyes shut as he felt his lungs convulsing once more.

"It's okay," John muttered, still grabbing his shoulders. "Don't breathe too deeply, okay? I…," he went on after a short pause. "You need time, I think, we both need time. To think about what happened, and what I've done, and…"

Sherlock inhaled again - too deeply. Why couldn't he talk, why couldn't he say anything, why, why, why…

Tears were now glistening in John's eyes as his smile broke eventually. "You'll be okay, Sherlock, and I'm… I'll give you time, and no, don't try to tell me you don't need it. I hit you, Sherlock, and sent you away, when you needed me most, as your friend. It's nothing… it's nothing friends do, and I want you to understand that, alright?"

Not what friends did… Sherlock's head was spinning as he tried to make sense of John's words. Think about it… but it had been his fault, entirely his fault, hadn't it? He shouldn't have shown up on John's doorstep after three years, shouldn't have disturbed John's new life with his job and his girlfriend and his new flat, shouldn't have invaded like that. Because that wasn't what friends did, was it? He should have enjoyed John's happiness, from afar, should have let him lead his own life without interfering again, should have stayed away, right from the beginning.

Of course John had reacted like this, like…

Was this what John was trying to tell him, too kind, as always, to speak bluntly? Was it? He was here. John, wasn't he, because he felt… guilty, because he thought he owed Sherlock, because… Why else would he be here, with him, broken and sick and delusional as he was?

Sherlock didn't understand.

It had been his own fault, of course it had, his fault, and yet John…Because he felt guilty, and because he was too kind, too gentle, too thoughtful to simply tell Sherlock.

His fault. He needed John, didn't want him to leave, didn't, but… he had hurt John, badly, and the least… the least he could do was to let him go now.

"Okay," he finally breathed, avoiding looking at John's face.

Nonetheless he could see how John's entire body seemed to deflate. Was it relief? Or was it… disappointment? He was tired, so tired, his exhaustion weighing around his neck like a millstone, and the mask on his face suddenly felt as if it was suffocating him rather than assisting him.

"Okay," John repeated, withdrawing his hands and sitting up in his chair. "The nurses will take good care of you, I promise. If you…"

If he needed John, was the first thought that crossed Sherlock's mind, but John shook his head briefly, pursing his lips, and swallowed thickly. "Don't rush anything, alright?" he muttered instead, scrambling to his feet. "And… don't do anything stupid. Just get… get better, alright?"

Sherlock couldn't even muster the energy to form a simple yes in response.

"Okay," John rasped, his voice choked. "Okay. I'll just… Greg and Mrs Hudson will come around again, I think, so… Christ." He cleared his throat, Sherlock noticed dazedly, his hands trembling. "I'm sorry, really. So… goodbye, then."

Sherlock sensed another coughing fit coming, threatening to drown out John's words.

John turned around once more, standing at the door. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered, and before Sherlock could do anything, do anything else but to listen to the accelerating beeping of the heart monitor, the door opened and closed again and John was gone.

* * *

_Well yes, none of them is drawing the correct conclusion._

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


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